The Guy Who Loved Me
by SmatterChoo
Summary: It's November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham that she hopes will jump-start the next stage of her career. But what he actually has in mind is a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.
1. Reassigned

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

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**Chapter 1:** **Reassigned  
**

It had been four long years since I'd walked Langley's hallowed halls. Nothing—and everything—had changed. The first time I'd crossed the CIA's great seal, I'd barely glanced at it, except to register the irony that I—the daughter of a grifter—was entering the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency, not as a prisoner or a penitent, but as a fresh recruit. I'd been scheming as I strode over the shield, with its sixteen-pointed star, and stepped right on the beady eye of the eagle … thinking about how I could use this bizarre turn of events to my advantage … or how I could con my way out of this mess.

Now, things were different. I knew what the seal stood for, what each part of it signified. The shield represented defense, the eagle was an emblem of our country's strength, and the star symbolized the synchronization of international intelligence records. I'd come to regard the CIA's mission as sacred, and the Book of Honor—displayed beneath the Memorial Wall—was the closest thing I had to a family Bible.

I'd become a true believer, all right. But that didn't mean the CIA had placed quite as much faith in me in return.

My heels clacked in concert on the polished marble floors as I breathed in the all-too-sterile, recirculated air, reminding me that even _it_ wasn't allowed to leave the confines of the building without express written consent from those in power. The scent of the stale air brought back the dreary thoughts I'd had all those years ago when Director Graham had given me the faux-choice of imprisonment or servitude. I'd been a teenager then, streetwise but out of options. Now I was a CIA agent, with plenty of missions under my belt … but in some ways, I had no more autonomy than I'd had before I was recruited.

Now that my stint with the CATS was officially over and the team disbanded, I was more than apprehensive as to why Graham would want to meet with me—and in person, no less. Was he finally going to give me my red test? The thought sent shivers down my spine. Sure, the test would make me a fully-fledged field agent, allowed to finally work on my own—but at what cost?

Or did he plan to assign me a new partner—maybe even a permanent one this time? After one of my closest friends had managed to betray my trust—and our team—I'd be a fool to willingly brave those waters once again. But orders were orders, and if that was what Graham had in mind, I'd have no choice but to comply.

The sharp, staccato tap of my heels echoed the pounding of my heart as I made my way toward Graham's inner sanctum. I hadn't been there that many times before, but two things still held true—the unmistakable feeling that I'd been called to the principal's office and the overwhelming anxiety I felt as I wove my way through the crowded halls, each step taking me closer and closer to an unknown destiny.

The halls were no less crowded today, bustling with agents, analysts, and staffers. I saw a few familiar faces, some even from the Farm, but didn't stop to chat. Graham didn't tolerate tardiness, and I was loathe to piss him off before I'd even reached his door.

His office, of course, was on the fabled seventh floor, at the end of a massive hallway that was painted a deep, majestic red—the color of spilled blood, I'd thought the first time I'd seen it—and flanked by huge white columns. A succession of heavy glass-and-brass chandeliers hung from the coffered ceiling. Pools of light gleamed on the checkered floor as I made my way down the hall, following the lines of white squares that terminated at the threshold to Graham's office.

I arrived with minutes to spare. Graham's new secretary, a willowy woman with slightly frazzled graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses, sat at the L-shaped reception desk, surrounded by stacks of files. She peered at me over the top of her computer monitor, and I fought the urge to squirm. I belonged here, after all.

"Good morning, ma'am," I said, keeping my voice cool and level. "Agent Walker, here for my ten o'clock appointment with Director Graham. He should be expecting me."

The secretary—Elisa Stanwyck, according to the brass nameplate shoved to the edge of her desk by a tilting tower of files—scanned her monitor for confirmation. I waited patiently. I'd been to Graham's office on three other occasions. Each time, he'd had a different secretary. If Graham's standards for his front office staff were as exacting as they were for his agents, Elisa's days were numbered.

She gave me a peremptory nod and picked up the phone. "Director? Agent Walker is here to see you."

I could hear Graham's gruff voice on the other end. A moment later, Elisa hung up and gave me what looked like a forced smile. "He'll be right with you. Please, have a seat."

She gestured to one of the seats across from her desk—straight-backed wooden chairs, doubtless chosen to make Graham's guests as uncomfortable as possible while they waited. These, at least, were still the same. I sank down onto the closest one, smoothing my skirt under my thighs to avoid any wrinkles.

The first time I'd sat here, I'd had a different name and a different look to go with it. Graham had given me my working alias: 'Sarah Walker'—and then set about remaking the rest of me in his image. He'd sent me off to the Farm, where they'd groomed, plucked, waxed, and otherwise reshaped me from a gangly seventeen-year-old girl with a prickly attitude into a sleek weapon who could transform herself from vixen to vanquisher at will. At first, the male trainees had either ignored me or teased me relentlessly—but after the whole ugly-duckling-into-swan metamorphosis, they'd fallen all over each other just to garner my attention. I was the same person; they just saw different packaging, and drooled accordingly. It pissed me off that those kinds of men existed, which in turn made me want to have nothing to do with their type and earned me yet another moniker: The Ice Queen.

Well, they could call me whatever they wanted. I'd graduated top of my class, breaking every record the Farm had. I wasn't just the best woman there; I'd become the best agent, period—which meant that I wasn't sure whether to be offended or pleased when Graham had assigned me to the all-women team of the CATS. The name itself was misogynistic.

In the end, it hadn't mattered why Graham had assigned me there. I'd made the first friends I'd ever had, becoming their unofficial leader in the process. None of my missions had ever failed, either. But despite all that, I'd been terribly lonely. I'd never dated anyone in high school—we'd moved around too much, and even when we were stuck somewhere long enough for me to form attachments, I'd avoided them, knowing we could be uprooted at any moment due to my father's incessant schemes. And dating one of those over-eager zealots at the Farm had been out of the question … so the closest I'd ever gotten to any form of romance had been the sickening seduction techniques I'd been taught to use on marks—just enough to ensnare their imagination and ensure their compliance for the mission. Even now, any real relationship seemed far too complicated—not to mention risky. How could I possibly know how to protect myself … or my heart? It's not like I had any examples of functioning romantic relationships to go by—and one-night stands hardly seemed worth the effort … much to Carina's chagrin. Even though she was the person who knew me best, she never really understood my reluctance.

Yeah, the most intimate relationships I'd experienced to date had been with my fellow CATS … and look how that turned out. I'd trusted Zondra with my life, only to find out she'd been a fucking mole the entire time. Then the Squad was disbanded for obvious reasons, and now, here I sat, waiting for the next shoe to drop.

Lost in the maze of my thoughts, I didn't hear Elisa Stanwyck when she said my name … but from the irritation in her voice, I was sure it wasn't the first time.

"Agent Walker?" She peered at me over her glasses like the world's most judgmental librarian, confronted with a patron whose books were long overdue. "The Director will see you now."

OoOoOoOoO

The Director's office was Spartan, devoid of any luxuries befitting a man of his stature. As was the case with the Spartans, I'd always assumed this was intentional on Graham's part. It set a tone of unwavering authority, designed to make the supplicants sitting on the other side of his giant mahogany desk cower. A single floor lamp—the only source of light in the room—stood sentinel in the corner. Its thick chestnut lampshade cast an eerie glow across Graham's face when he spoke, giving the whole room a drab, ominous aura.

Unlike Elisa Stanwyck's desk, Graham's was spotless, save for one monitor, a desk phone, and a neatly arranged row of pens and pencils, and two precisely-aligned stacks of file folders, each within reaching distance of the visitors' chairs in front of his desk. This also might have been done with intent. Graham was a cagey character and you could never be sure what motivated his actions. As long as he made you feel off kilter, he was a happy man.

To my surprise, the painting that normally hung behind his chair—a likeness of the current president—was swung open, revealing a hidden wall safe in the same condition. I knew better than to inspect its contents; Graham would share them when—or if—he was ready.

"Good morning, Agent Walker," he said, gesturing at one of the visitors' chairs. "Right on time, as usual. Please have a seat."

I sank into one of the chairs, crossing my legs demurely. "Thank you, sir."

"While we wait," he said, peering at his watch, "I'd like to start out by assuring you that we will get to the bottom of what happened with your old team. _Miss_ Rizzo has been suspended, pending an investigation, and is being interrogated as we speak. It's only a matter of time before we'll know the whole truth … and all the players."

That was interesting on a couple of levels. First, he'd stripped Zondra of her title; and second, whoever we were waiting for was late, and Graham wasn't happy about it. Well, with luck I could use the precious minutes we were alone to plead my case.

"That's good news, Director. I'll admit, I was pretty shaken up by the whole ordeal—my trust in who I work with, especially." I paused strategically, letting several seconds tick by before I went on. "Perhaps it's time for me to work on my own—be given my own assignments. I think over the past four years, I've proven that I'm more than capable of operating independently."

I half-expected Graham to dismiss my assertion, but instead he gave me a reluctant nod. "Yes, Agent. You've more than met all of my hopes and expectations. Your star is certainly in ascent, as I knew it would be, with a limitless sky. There's no doubting you have the potential to be one of my best."

This was a rare compliment, and I tucked it away to savor for later. Graham was still talking, looking more displeased by the moment—but at least now I knew that his displeasure didn't originate with me. "My original plan was to do just that—have you work on your own, at least for a bit, before assigning you a permanent partner. That was to come later down the road, once you'd had a chance to get your sea legs out in the field. As it is, there's been a development—"

Just when he'd gotten to the crux of the matter, his desk phone buzzed. "Excuse me, Director," Stanwyck said. "I'm sorry to interrupt you, sir … but he's here."

"Very well." Graham sounded resigned. "Send him in."

The door opened and in walked a man, maybe around my age—twenty-two or twenty-three—wearing what looked like a tailor-made suit. He was around six feet tall, with perfectly-styled hair, a barely-cleft chin, and piercing blue eyes. His strong jawline showed just the hint of an afternoon shadow. He was, in short, classically handsome.

His eyes met mine for a fleeting moment as he stepped further into the room and his lips curved into the slightest of smirks, obviously unaware of how much I hated that kind of look and the type of man who wore it. His posture was dripping with overconfidence, oozing the stereotypical ladies' man and God's-gift-to-all-women-alike persona. With just one glance, I'd seen all I needed to see. He was as shallow as he was green—probably just freshly plucked from the Farm, if I had to wager. At least he was smart enough to address his tardiness with the Director, looking appropriately abashed.

"Forgive me, sir," he said, voice clipped. "I'll not waste any of your time with excuses. Rest assured, it won't happen again."

Graham folded his hands on his desk and gave the newcomer a level stare. "Make sure it doesn't, Agent. You work around my timeline—not the other way around. Have a seat … _if_ that's alright with you?"

"Of course, sir," Mr. Suave and Debonair said, sinking into the other visitors' chair as if he owned it. I had to suppress a sigh.

"Agent Walker," Graham said, turning to me, "this is Agent Larkin … your new interim partner."

I felt scalding heat creeping up my neck, the rage building slow and steady, threatening to reach epic proportions at any moment. So this was it. This was what Graham thought of all of my hard work and dedication to the Company. I'd been reduced to a fucking babysitter, having to teach the ropes to a greenhorn. And not just any fresh-off-the-Farm rookie, either, but one who was overly cocksure and might end up getting us both killed within the first few missions … if we were lucky.

With monumental effort, I stood to shake his hand, determined to keep up appearances. The gleam in his eyes curdled my stomach and made his intentions painfully clear. He was expecting to have an agents-with-benefits type of partnership that most male recruits glamorized while in training. Oh, the joys of working in a male-dominated occupation. Sometimes, it just wasn't worth the effort.

"It truly is an honor to meet a living legend, Agent Walker," he said smoothly, taking my hand in his and holding it just a little too long. "Your time at Camp Peary is still being hailed as the benchmark for us all to shoot for"—here he winked at me, as if he expected me to show appreciation for his horrible pun— "though I doubt your records will be in jeopardy any time soon. You set one hell of a bar."

I retrieved my hand, fighting the urge to wipe it clean on my skirt, and sat down again. "Thank you, Agent Larkin. It's nice to meet you as well."

"Please," he said with a Farm-fresh smile, packaged and resold to the next highest bidder. "Call me Bryce."

Oh, sure. I couldn't wait for us to become the best of friends.

"Now that the pleasantries are out of the way," Graham said, "let's get started with the briefing. What I'm about to divulge to each of you is top secret, eyes-only material. I trust you both know the consequences of not keeping this to yourselves."

"Yes, sir," Agent Larkin and I chorused dutifully. He shot me a sideways glance, as if this was evidence of our shared destiny. Seriously—I'd gone from the mess with Rizzo to this?

"Have either of you heard of the Omaha Project?" Graham directed the question to both of us, but his eyes locked on Larkin.

In my periphery, I saw Bryce's shoulders slump. When I looked at him, he'd gone ghostly white. "I might have heard something about it at Stanford," he confessed, "from the professor that recruited me."

"Ah! Good ol' professor Flemming." Graham's voice had taken on a jovial tone that I knew from experience portended only alarming things. "Yes, he's caused quite a lot of trouble for us. Playing fast and loose with our methods—doing 'favors' for junior agents—has put him directly within my crosshairs, and you, Agent Larkin, on my shit list."

"Sir?" Larkin said, with a transparent attempt at feigning innocence.

"Don't play coy with me, Agent. You're not doing yourself any favors. I know everything that went down at your old alma mater. It wasn't all that hard to loosen Flemming's lips, but he's been dealt with." A satisfied smile creased Graham's lips, gone as quickly as it came. "You, on the other hand, now have a sizable debt to the CIA—and to me. One that may take you a lifetime to repay. How long that lifetime is will be based entirely on your next few words. Choose them wisely."

Larkin looked skyward before replying, perhaps commending his soul to God. "I assume you're referring to Chuck, sir. He was my roommate at the time and had done exceptionally well on a subliminal images exam—"

"Exceptionally well?" Graham interrupted, incredulity marking his tone. "His retention rate was in the ninety-eighth percentile. No one before him had even come close. He was a shoo-in for Omaha—maybe even our only hope for success."

A pained expression crossed Larkin's face. "I understand that, Director, but you have to understand … he's not like us … he'd never survive in our world."

When Graham spoke, his voice was laced with contempt. "So that's why you framed him for cheating on his exam by hiding the answers to the test under his bed, ensuring that he'd be expelled in his final semester of his senior year, no less? Because you cared about him?"

Larkin had the grace to look embarrassed. He dropped his head, knotting his fingers in his lap. "I know it doesn't look that way … but yes, sir."

Graham sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Tell me, Agent … was this before or after you slept with his girlfriend?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. So this was the kind of partner Graham thought would be a good fit for me to work with—someone who would betray his closest friends? Hadn't I had enough of that kind of shit with the CATS? What was Graham playing at? How could he do this to me?

"You what?!" I shot daggers at Agent Larkin just in time to see disbelief color his features.

"But how—?" Larkin said, all but stammering.

Graham exhaled in frustration, as if he was dealing with a petulant child. "I told you … I know everything. You do know who you're working for, don't you? So forgive me if I'm not buying your bullshit story. You destroyed the man's life with intent and I think I know why. With a limited number of spots available in Omaha and Bartowski out of the running, you ensured your place among the top candidates. You had the next highest score in your class, after all, but I have to say the eighty-ninth percentile score you received seemed a bit lackluster in comparison. Hell … if it wasn't for you, Bartowski might be the one sitting beside Agent Walker."

So I'm forced to be partnered with smooth-talking, back-stabbing Larkin, instead of this Bartowski fellow … and all because of wanton treachery. Now, not only was I resentful, I was also morbidly curious as to who I'd been robbed of a possible future with. Chuck sounded like someone with raw talent, if his scores were any marker—someone who might've even matched my own.

"Excuse me, sir," I said, endeavoring to sound confident yet as if I knew my place. Graham wouldn't take well to any sort of attempt on my behalf to commandeer the conversation. "Bartowski?"

Apparently I'd struck just the right tone, because Graham gave me a nod of appreciation. "Ah, yes, Agent Walker. Thank you for keeping us all on track. He's why we're here. Well … sort of, anyway. If you'll take a look at the top folder in front of you, I'll try to explain."

I pulled the folder in question off the stack, but didn't flip it open until Graham finished speaking. He wouldn't appreciate having anything less than my undivided attention.

"Omaha's original mandate was to build something called the Intersect computer. It's supposed to allow vast quantities of data to be uploaded directly into the brain of one of our agents through subliminal imagery," he said, pausing to collect his thoughts. "The problem is, Omaha's been a complete failure. All the technology was based off the incomplete research of a computer scientist that used to work with the Company. He was way ahead of his time and did things no one had ever seen or thought of. He went missing back in ninety-five and we believe that he's been in hiding ever since. You might have even heard his name floating around the halls here—maybe even thought it was CIA folklore. But I assure you he was real. His code name was Orion."

Graham was right—I had thought of Orion as some kind of mythical figure. Apparently, I'd been wrong. "Yes, sir. I've heard the tales. Tall tales, I thought at the time. He was like some kind of wizard, but with computers, right?"

He nodded, so I went on: "Some of the analysts I've worked with thought he might be the second coming. Thought he could've walked on digital water if he was still around. I never took them all that seriously. It all sounded like hero worship to me."

Larkin snorted. "Yeah, Chuck would've _loved_ to meet him, that's for sure. Biggest nerd there ever was."

Graham's steely-eyed stare focused on his face. "Funny you should say that, Agent Larkin. As it turns out, Chuck did love him—at least at one time. You see, Orion is his father, Stephen Joseph Bartowski … _and_ your primary mission. It's imperative that we draw him out into the open once again. Our scientists think that without his help, it might be twenty years or more before a human Intersect becomes a reality."

Wow. This assignment had just gotten a lot more interesting. "Primary, sir? I take it there's a secondary mission, then?"

Graham gestured at the stack on his desk. "If you look at the second set of folders, I'll explain further. I'll give you both a moment to scan through them before we continue—although Agent Larkin is probably already fully versed. I just believe we all should be on the same page before I go on."

I opened the first folder. Clipped to the inside was a somewhat unflattering picture of _Charles Irving "Chuck" Bartowski, _dressed in a short-sleeved white button-down and grey tie. In his left pocket was an actual pocket protector/nametag combo, filled with an assortment of pens and small tools. But his eyes—they caught me completely off guard. For a moment I was pulled in, an involuntary reflex, instantly entranced by their honey-amber depths. There was a hallmark of sadness behind those eyes, like a deep longing for all the things he'd missed out on—no surprise, considering what Bryce had done to him—but there was also a hint of mischief, as if he had a secret he was just dying to tell me. And his hair … it was all over the place, with long brown curls that obviously had a mind of their own. I had the overwhelming urge to reach through the photo and fix them … right after I straightened his tie.

What the hell was wrong with me? Maybe I was reacting this way because he looked like the antithesis of men like Bryce Larkin. Either way, I needed to get ahold of myself—especially in front of the Director of the CIA.

I skimmed through his dossier and moved on to the second folder, desperate for something else to think about. As had been the case with the first folder, an image was attached to the inside. But unlike Chuck's picture, _Eleanor Faye "Ellie" Bartowski_ didn't have a hair out of place. She was gorgeous, with hazel-green eyes and long flowing brown hair, and looked like she would be a force to be reckoned with. It was just a gut feeling, but I'd learned over the years to never ignore them.

Sure enough, her dossier showed that she had just finished her doctorate at UCLA Medical Center, specializing in neurology. Both siblings were brilliant. That much was obvious. So what was the rub? Something felt off as I looked up from the files to catch Graham's attention.

"How are Orion's children involved in all of this, sir? It doesn't sound like either of them have been in touch with their father in almost nine years."

"You catch on quickly, Agent," Graham said. "That's part of your assignment. I need you to get close to both Bartowskis. Find out what they know; if they have any back channels they use to keep in contact with their father; anything you can stir up. Use any means necessary."

I could understand why I'd been selected for this mission, given its top-secret nature and the need for discretion … but why Larkin? From what I could discern, he'd be the worst possible choice imaginable. The moment the Bartowskis laid eyes on his face, the whole operation would be blown.

"And our cover?" I said, endeavoring to sound respectful. "I highly doubt that Agent Larkin's presence would be welcomed by either sibling. Frankly, I'm a bit confused as to why he's been assigned to this mission in the first place. Feels like a disaster waiting to happen."

"Hey!" Larkin protested, arching an eyebrow. "That's a bit unfair, don't you think?"

Much to my gratification, Graham ignored him. "I understand your concerns, Agent Walker," the Director said. "Larkin's contribution to this operation will be paramount with his years of knowledge on both marks. He'll also be responsible for the surveillance of the Bartowski residence and working remotely with our analyst on hunting down Orion with any clues we can drum up." His gaze swiveled to Larkin, who no longer looked quite as arrogant as he had when he'd strode through the door. "Plus, his debt to us still needs to be paid in full. He's temporarily robbed us of a promising recruit—maybe even _the_ most promising. I have a feeling Larkin will be … _motivated_ to make sure you're both successful and his mistake in keeping Bartowski off our radar, rectified. Isn't that right, Agent Larkin?"

"Yes, sir," Larkin said, eyes downcast. "Anything you say."

Now that Larkin was sufficiently cowed, Graham could afford to be magnanimous. "Until Orion's brought back into the fold, and Omaha's a reality, there's no need to shake that tree just yet," he said, leaning back in his chair. "In the meantime, Agent Walker, I've procured you a fully furnished apartment in Echo Park, the same complex where the Bartowskis live. Once you're established, everything else should be a piece of cake. Agent Larkin will be posted in one of the nearby apartment complexes we have a contract with, Maison23. It's far enough away for him to stay covert, but close enough should you need backup in a pinch."

At least the arrogant bastard wouldn't be living with me. "Is there anything else we should know, sir?" I asked, doing my best not to let my relief show in my voice.

"Just that your flight leaves in a little over two hours." He realigned the folders still remaining on his desk, the crease in his brow lingering until they formed two perfect columns once more. "Pack your bags for the long haul, agents. There's no telling how long this assignment might take."

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A/N: We're taking a brief break from 'A Spy in the House of Chuck' while Emily has her last chemo infusion, our son has his 15th birthday, and we celebrate! In the meantime, here is a new story for you to sink your teeth into. This one's Neil's brainchild—Emily is just providing her editorial skills. As you can see, the chapters are only about half as long as ASITHOC to allow for more frequent updates. Please let us know what you think.

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	2. Homecoming

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

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**Chapter 2: Homecoming****  
**

Our flight out of Dulles International Airport was aboard a CIA chartered Gulfstream G550. Bypassing airport security had been easy enough—it's amazing what you can do with a CIA badge and the right clearance. Since I knew Dulles' protocols better than Larkin did, I'd gotten to the plane first and waited at the base of the airstairs while the pilots circled the craft for their preflight inspection.

My hair fell loose about my face, lashing my cheeks as frigid wind whipped across the tarmac. I drew up the hood of my navy-blue parka, closing my eyes against the sting … but it didn't help much. The icy chill cut straight through my coat, then gnawed its way through the skinny jeans I should have known better than to wear on a day like today. Shivering under the weak November sun, I welcomed the thought of California's balmy winter weather.

Soon, I'd be on the plane and warm enough. With just myself and Larkin aboard, _sans_ the pilots, I'd have plenty of time to delve further into the dossiers on both Bartowskis and commit their family history to memory, making sure I used just the right approach to insert myself into their lives and come up with an effective cover story. Our introduction had to look like happenstance … completely organic. This might be an unsavory assignment—both Chuck and Ellie seemed like innocent marks whose only sin was falling into Graham's web courtesy of their genius, albeit negligent father—but I had never failed a mission and I wasn't about to start now.

I had to suppress a chortle when I looked up and saw Bryce crossing the airfield, struggling with multiple pieces of luggage. He'd brought so much, he'd had to pile it onto a baggage cart, which was threatening to get away from him as the wind buffeted it this way and that. The guy reminded me of the Buster Keaton skits my father used to enjoy. You'd think he was preparing to invade a small country … or maybe to survive the end of the world? The spectacle only confirmed what I already knew to be true. One: he was so wet behind the ears that I half-expected him to ask when we were going to meet up with Q for our spy gear. And two: if I didn't start teaching him how things really worked in our world, he was going to blow the whole damn operation.

I got on the plane first, thanks to Bryce's overzealous packing habits, so I had my pick of the beige, high-backed leather seats. I could've stowed my luggage, as I usually did, but instead I decided to put the carry-on in the seat next to mine … just in case Larkin got any ideas. Then I slid into the adjacent window seat, dug in my bag for the files Graham had given me, and prepared to read.

A moment later, Larkin made his way onto the plane. He started stuffing his various carry-ons into the luggage compartment, which gave me time to count them. He had five bags in total, and from the looks of them, they were all expensive.

Was he for real?

He wedged the last one inside and then his gaze fell on me—notably, on the roll-on perched on the seat next to mine. "Is that all you brought?" he said, his eyebrows creeping up toward his hairline.

I shrugged. "I always travel light. Never know when you might need to leave on a moment's notice. Keeps things simple." Then I put the folder on the table in front of me and flipped it open, hoping he would take the hint.

No such luck. He dropped into the seat opposite mine and insisted on trying to strike up a conversation every five minutes once we'd taken off, breaking my concentration and forcing me to reread the same pages over and over. Finally, on his third attempt, I decided to give up and use his impertinence to pick his brain. It was why he was here, after all.

"So, Agent Larkin …" I began, but he cut me off mid-sentence.

"Please, Sarah … like I said before, you can call me Bryce." He gave me an ingratiating smile. "There's no need for formalities. We're partners now."

"Interim partners," I clarified, "but fine—Bryce it is. So, tell me everything you can about Chuck and Ellie. What are they like? You can get only so much from a two-dimensional dossier crafted by a bunch of desk jockeys."

He stood, taking a moment to grab a bottled water out of the mini-fridge before answering. "Well, I'm not sure how much help I can offer with regards to Ellie," he said, slipping back into his seat. "I only met her a handful of times. I will say that she's the matriarch of their little makeshift family and a real ballbuster. She practically raised Chuck and mothers him to death. You definitely don't want to get on her bad side or this operation will be over before it starts."

Ballbuster—really? Such a sexist term for a strong woman who'd singlehandedly held her family together while managing to earn her MD despite essentially being an orphan. I contained my disgust, but it took considerable effort. "I see she's dating another doctor—a cardiologist. Have you met her boyfriend, Devon?"

"Just the one time at a Stanford football game, back when we were juniors," he said, glancing out his window as if bored with the topic. "He was okay, I guess. Kind of a meathead, if you know what I mean. A real jock, health nut, and thrill-seeker, from what Chuck's told me. I just remember he was a bit loud for my tastes."

What did that even mean? Did Larkin prefer to spend his evenings listening to classical music and smoking Cuban cigars? With luck, I'd never have to find out. "What about Chuck?" I said, holding up the folder. "What can you tell me that's not in here?"

He cracked his knuckles, thinking. "Well, besides his intelligence, the first thing you'll probably notice when you meet him is his wicked sense of humor. The guy can be hilarious when he wants to be—especially when he's nervous … or around pretty girls. It's like some kind of defense mechanism he's built up over the years—a way to stave off some of his more deep-seated insecurities." Crossing his legs at the ankle, he took a swig of his water. "I never really understood why he had so many, to tell you the truth. The guy is brilliant, after all, but you'll see that he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve so you'll always know what he's feeling. His friends and family are the most important things in his life. He's loyal to a fault and about as naïve as they come, too."

Now that was interesting—and maybe something I could use. "Naïve? What do you mean?"

Larkin shrugged. "Just that he sees the best in everyone he meets, even if they haven't earned it. Trust me … that should work to your advantage. You should be able to play him like a fiddle. He doesn't stand a chance against the likes of you."

A moment ago, I'd been thinking how to leverage Chuck Bartowski's supposed naïveté against him … but Larkin's last sentence chilled me. When I spoke, my voice was glacial. "I'm not sure I catch your meaning."

He smirked, as if this was a joke that we were in on together, and I was just refusing to play along. "Come on, Sarah … just look at you. Chuck's shy around most girls, not just the pretty ones. And forgive me for saying so, but you are by far the sexiest woman I've ever laid eyes on. Trust me, that's saying a lot. When he sees you he won't be able to form a coherent sentence, must less resist you. Let's face it … compared to you and me, he's a bit of a loser."

What I felt after Bryce finished speaking was as foreign to me as anything I'd ever experienced—and somewhat frightening, too. I'd become intoxicated—manic with an emotion I'd never felt before. The acidity of my reaction recoiled in my stomach, waiting to be spat out in vulgar words I would normally never consider speaking in a professional setting … except I didn't just want to speak them, I wanted to screech them with every ounce of breath my lungs could summon.

What the hell was wrong with me? I'd never even met Chuck, and here I was wanting to defend him. Only through the grace of God and every ounce of training I possessed did I tamp down the flames long enough to respond with my last remaining shred of civility.

"Thank you for your insight, Bryce," I said, willing myself not to grit my teeth. "That should do for now. This has been very … enlightening."

Bryce gave a curt nod, his lips forming a knowing smile. "Any time. Hey … perhaps when we land I can take you out to dinner and we can discuss this further. You know … a little pinot, a filet, some candlelight and of course … the company of a beautiful woman. Sounds like a great opportunity for us to sit back, relax and get to know one another better. What do you say?"

It was time to nip these kinds of thoughts in the bud.

"Listen, Agent Larkin." I held up my hand to stop him from interjecting once again. "Let me make one thing painfully clear to you. When we land, you and I are not to be seen together in any way, shape or form. That's how covers are blown and missions fail. As a matter of fact, you should limit your time out in public to that of necessity—and even then, in disguise. I have a perfect record for a reason." I paused to let that sink in before I continued. "I suggest you start following my example by keeping your head in the game and your eye on the ball. We'll have plenty of time to get to know one another."

Undeterred, he pressed on. "We could always order room service." The innuendo that dripped from his tongue matched the look in his eyes. He actually had the nerve to try and reach for my hand, only to jerk it back like it'd been scalded when—In a silver flash—my knife pierced the middle of the table, separating the two of us.

"What the hell—"

Bryce's face fell faster than a corpse in cement boots. His skin turned grey, his mouth hung open, and his eyes sprang as wide as they could stretch. I didn't bother to respond. My expression spoke for me—as did the dagger I slipped back into its sheath beneath my skirt. His eyes wouldn't meet mine any longer, but I saw the desired effect within them as I returned my attention to the files: Fear.

For the rest of the flight, until we landed at Los Angeles International Airport, Agent Larkin decided to strike a different tone with me.

Silence.

OoOoOoOoO

It was late afternoon, California time, when I finally pulled up in front of Echo Park in the black, slightly-used Jeep Grand Cherokee I'd rented at LAX. I'd picked it to go along with the cover story I'd nailed down by the time we landed. Bryce, being Bryce, had chosen the only sports car available—a brand-new, candy-apple-red Corvette convertible. God, he was insufferable and about as inconspicuous as a drag queen in a Mormon temple.

Despite the incident on the plane, he'd reluctantly agreed that we should meet at his apartment tomorrow morning to go over our mission parameters. A CIA team had installed surveillance throughout the Echo Park complex as well as inside the Bartowskis' apartment this morning, while they were both at work. Hopefully that was still the case, as I liked to suss out my surroundings before being thrown into the deep end. I'd far prefer to explore the apartment complex and figure out the best way for me to accidentally-on-purpose encounter the siblings, than stroll into Echo Park and run into either of them taking out the trash.

My work had sent me to a lot of places—from the ghetto to the lap of luxury, and everywhere in between—and I'd learned to adapt. Echo Park was a pleasant surprise. I'd Googled it, of course, but coming from the nasty, frigid Virginia weather, where the trees had long since dropped their leaves and the cold gnawed at my bones, it was still refreshing to step out of the Jeep and take a deep breath of the warm California air, bearing the scent of evening primrose.

Dusk was falling as I made my way up to the white columns that flanked the entrance to Echo Park, and the small lanterns that topped the columns had come on, lighting my way. I walked through the open wrought-iron gates and passed beneath the giant palm fronds that formed a natural arch over the entryway. The path to the apartment complex meandered under another arch—manmade this time—and deposited me in a flagstone courtyard, planted with lush greenery. At the center was a two-tiered fountain bordered by an elaborate basin. The apartments were all accessible from the courtyard, and had the sloping Spanish-tiled roofs that I'd seen on most of the houses en route from LAX.

It was a nice place, all right. Cozy without being claustrophobic, verdant without feeling overgrown. I could see why the Bartowskis had made their home here.

But it wasn't my home, I kept having to remind myself—just a temporary pit stop. I hadn't had a real home in more years than I could remember. Fighting back the emptiness that had somehow clawed its way into my chest, I wheeled my carry-on over the cobblestones to the apartment Graham had assigned me, dug out my keys, and stepped inside.

The apartment wasn't lavishly appointed, but the CIA had struck a nice balance of understated yet dignified. With its two bedrooms and one bath, I had more than enough space to settle in for the long haul. They'd even had the foresight to convert one of the bedrooms into a workout space with a heavy bag, treadmill, and elliptical trainer, with just enough room left over for my daily tai chi regimen.

I wheeled my carry-on into the other bedroom and placed it in the closet, not bothering to unpack. Besides the sleek, modern bedroom suite that actually matched my tastes, a smallish desk stood in the corner near the window. I walked over to inspect it. A computer tower was tucked underneath. Dual monitors sat on top, next to a leather case and a manila envelope. Opening the clasps of the jacket, I began to read.

I'd hoped for more intelligence on the Bartowskis, but the contents of the envelope were just as vital: Information on the surveillance setup. My eyebrows rose as I scanned the pages. The CIA had spared no expense—the surveillance was state of the art and linked directly to the watch that they'd put in the leather case, along with a set of earbuds.

I opened the case to take a look, weighing the watch in my hand. It was black, with a thin band—as understated as the apartment's décor and simple, like a diver's watch … something that wouldn't draw the eye, which of course, was the point. Apparently, it could also be used as a remote device for the perimeter alarm. The linked earbuds provided real-time audio from bugs planted throughout Casa Bartowski, and the watch controlled them as well. I'd never used a gadget like this before, and it was always fun to have a new toy—especially one as versatile as this.

Strapping the watch to my wrist, I woke the computer and logged in with my credentials. The surveillance program was minimized on the desktop, but still running in the background—most likely with a hard-wired encrypted feed to the analysts in Langley as well as to Bryce's apartment, given that this was his responsibility per Graham's orders.

I maximized the window and got my first look at the Bartowski residence's inner sanctum. The first camera feed I clicked on was pointed towards the dining room, which—inexplicably—had a conga drum in the corner and a poster of some kind of comic book characters on the wall beside the pass-through to the kitchen. I clicked on the next square and got a close-up of the kitchen … countertops cluttered with a toaster and coffeemaker, plus an abandoned to-go mug. The window over the sink was framed by a frilly curtain with small flowers embroidered on the edges—Ellie's touch, I assumed.

When I clicked again, I found myself looking at what had to be Chuck's bedroom. Here was the stamp of his personality. There was a bookshelf full of CDs, a guitar leaning in a chair. I panned around the room and found stacks of comic books, vinyl records, and a movie poster for something called 'Tron.' A collection of action figures in various poses were strategically placed throughout the room. Bryce had been right; Chuck was a nerd of the first order. Still, there was something endearing about the objects with which he'd chosen to surround himself. His room—the whole apartment, really—was a reflection of the people who lived there. Sure, unlike my CIA-appointed residence, some of the furniture was mismatched and dated … but the apartment was also vibrant, alive in a way mine never would be. Mine was a temporary base of operations; theirs was a home.

I rubbed my chest, trying to dispel the strange, discomfited feeling that had taken up residence there—the same one I'd felt when I'd first walked into the courtyard. This wasn't like me. I got in, got the job done, and got out again. I didn't get nostalgic for what I'd never had or defensive on behalf of a man I'd never met. Something about this mission felt different, and I didn't like it one bit.

Lost in thought, I almost didn't register the high-pitched noise emanating from my watch, alerting me that motion had been detected outside the gates of the complex. I glanced at the computer monitors. On the left screen, a single box flashed. I clicked on it, bringing it into focus. The box enlarged into an image of Ellie Bartowski, stepping out of her car with a satchel slung over her shoulder. She balanced a paper bag of what looked like groceries in each arm, both full to the brim, the contents on the verge of spilling to the pavement.

Showtime.

I had to time it just right. Dashing to grab my coat and keys, I exited my apartment just as she set foot on the flagstones of the courtyard.

When I stepped out, she looked over, her eyes wide. Then her expression of surprise faded, replaced by relief.

"Oh, thank God," she said, huffing out a breath, her eyes meeting mine for the first time. Her picture didn't do her justice. With her large hazel eyes and warm, bright smile, she was as beautiful as she was intimidating … just as I'd imagined.

"Excuse me?" I said, a little shocked—and curious as to why she was so happy to see a total stranger.

Her gaze fell to the ground and she shook her head, as if trying to decide what to say next. "I'm so sorry," she finally replied, looking back up. "I'm sure that was a bizarre way to meet one of your new neighbors. It's just the last person who lived in that apartment—Mr. Atkinson—was an old curmudgeon and about as ill-tempered as they come. Constantly going on and on about how loud everyone was—threatening to call the cops if he heard the slightest peep coming from any of the other apartments. After he was evicted—for what, I'm not sure—I just prayed that whoever took over his old place would be of a different ilk, if you know what I mean."

I couldn't help myself. "I do, and as long as you keep it down, we won't have any problems."

Her laughter was as infectious as it was heartwarming, and we soon found ourselves smiling at each other. "Hi, I'm Sarah Walker." I held out my hand, then remembered her arms were still full. "Sorry. Here … let me help you with those."

She surrendered one of the bags to me, then gave me a dazzling smile as she shook my hand. "I'm Ellie … Ellie Bartowski. I live with my little brother right across the way. Please allow me a second chance to make a good first impression by welcoming you to the neighborhood. Do you maybe want to come over for a cup of coffee or tea … maybe something even a little stronger? Unless you're heading out, of course. We could always do it another time."

I felt a pang of guilt for what I was about to do, but this was my assignment and I needed to stop having these kinds of feelings. A mark, I reminded myself. She was just a mark that had given me as good an opening as I'd ever gotten starting out a mission like this. It was almost too easy.

"It's nothing that can't wait," I said. "I was just going to run out for some supplies. A cup of tea actually sounds wonderful. I haven't had a chance to stock up just yet, but it's on the list."

"Well, follow me, but please," she paused to give me a pointed look, "excuse the mess. My brother can be a bit of a slob sometimes."

Ellie unlocked the door and we stepped inside. The first thing I noticed was the scent—somewhere between freshly baked cookies, laundry detergent, and something else I couldn't quite place. It was comforting, reinforcing the sense of hominess I'd felt when I looked at the surveillance footage.

I followed her to the kitchen, put the bag of groceries on the counter, and watched as she filled a tea kettle with water. Placing it on the stove's back burner, she started putting away the food.

"So tell me about yourself, Sarah Walker. What brings you to Echo Park? Are you originally from Burbank, or are you new to the area?"

Here we go. Time to put on my game face and sell it.

The lies that I'd used for most of my adult life—first as a grifter and then with the CIA—were close enough to the truth to pass just under the radar, or else so big you'd never dream a person could make up such things. The half-truths tended to warp reality, making me leery of trusting others—after all, how did I know they weren't lying to me too? The big lies were all about shock and awe, rooting me in fear of discovery and putting my primal brain in charge. Once I went into survival mode, a muzzle clamped down on my higher thinking, and concepts like altruism, charity, and decorum became whispers among the anxious screams of the lies I depended on to stay alive.

My heart started to beat faster. "No, I'm from the East Coast, actually. Washington, DC, to be exact."

"DC, huh?" Ellie stopped what she was doing, a loaf of bread in her hand, clearly taken aback. "That's a helluva hike. What made you move all the way to the other side of the country? A job?"

A little faster, still. "Not so much a 'what' brought me out here as a 'who.'" I let an eyebrow climb just a tad.

Ellie's face crumbled as if she'd just heard a terrible piece of news. "So, a boyfriend, then?" Her shoulders slumped. "What am I saying? You're absolutely gorgeous. Of course you have a boyfriend."

Now my heart was slamming against my chest. "Ex-boyfriend." The words turned to vinegar, stinging my tongue and souring my stomach. "It was a really abusive relationship that ended over six months ago. An ignored restraining order and a trip to the hospital was about all I could stand before deciding I needed a change. A big one. Plus all of my friends were his friends. I just felt like I needed to start over."

A look of shock bathed her features, and her hand covered her mouth. Tears filled her eyes, making me feel horrible. Real empathy for my well-being was not something I was accustomed to. The fact that her concern was all based off a lie made it ten times worse. I'd never hated my job more than I did in that moment. What the hell was I doing?

In a blink, she was hugging me, shaking like a leaf. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that, Sarah. No one should have to deal with that kind of pain and heartache. Trust me … I know what that looks like first-hand. My brother … well … never mind." She pulled back, holding my shoulders at arm's length. I melted under the warmth of her gaze. "There's one good thing I think we can take away from all of this."

Nervously, I laughed. "What's that?"

"I can help you start over by being one of your first friends out here on the West Coast," Ellie said, a look of hope in her eyes. "Maybe even one of your best friends?"

God, I really liked this woman. I couldn't help myself—a smile nearly split my face in two. Even though Bryce was probably watching right now, I didn't care as I hugged her again, and we both broke into laughter.

The kettle started whistling, breaking us from our reverie. Ellie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and walked over to turn off the burner. "What are your Thanksgiving plans for tomorrow?" she asked, sniffling as she poured our tea. "Do you have family in the area?"

Once again, Ellie was making my job way too easy … and extremely hard at the same time. This was the lie that I'd spent hours on the plane concocting, designed to manipulate and coerce the Bartowskis into not only trusting me, but confiding in me about their father. The premise was simple: Make myself a bird of a feather and a kindred spirit—by using the memory of their horrible past against them.

My heart cracked a little as the words sprang forth of their own accord—practiced to the point of autonomy. "I don't have any family, Ellie," I said, hitting rock bottom. "My mother died in childbirth and my father gave me up to social services when I was seven. I guess he couldn't handle the responsibility or something … or maybe he just didn't love me enough—I'm not sure which. I've tried to find him over the years, but he just vanished—no trace of him anywhere. For all I know, he could be dead, too."

Ellie's eyes started watering again as her head hung low. I'd officially become the biggest asshole to ever walk the Earth.

She looked up again, gesturing for me to follow her out of the kitchen and into the dining room. When I did, she sat our cups across from each other and sank down into a chair. Taking the seat opposite her would put my back to the door—a position no spy would ever choose on their own, but what could I do? Sitting down, I waited, knowing that she was about to make me feel even worse than I already did.

She didn't disappoint. "You poor thing," she whispered, her voice trembling. "No one should ever make you feel like you weren't loved. You dad's sins are his and his alone. Chuck and I—"

My breath hitched when she was cut short, mid-reassurance, by the sound of the front door opening. I could hear keys rattling but didn't turn my head to see. I was not prepared to meet Chuck right now. Emotionally spent—a sensation that bemused me, given that I made up cover stories all the time and had never felt much remorse one way or the other—I focused on the swirled grain of the wooden tabletop. It felt like a mirror, reflecting the chaos inside me.

Chuck Bartowski's voice shattered the last of my defenses when he entered the apartment and got a good look at his sister—tear-stained face, shaking hands, and all.

"Ellie … oh my God … what's wrong? Are you okay?"

His footfalls came closer and closer, each one pushing me toward the abyss. Holding out for as long as I could, I finally looked up … and fell, tumbling end over glorious end.

His picture hadn't done him justice, either. Here were those dark curls, falling in disarray over his forehead, and those chestnut-colored eyes. What the photo hadn't captured, though, was the kindness in those eyes, a deep sincerity that made me understand why Larkin had called him naïve. I felt as if he could see right through me—like he saw all of my flaws, and accepted me despite them. I felt warm, and safe, and loved.

Which was ridiculous. He might be radiating those emotions, but they were intended for his sister, not me. I was the spider luring him into my web. I didn't deserve his kindness, much less the way his face changed when his eyes met mine.

I was used to guys staring at me—leering at me, even. It made me feel disgusted, annoyed, or just plain tired, depending on my mood. But the way Chuck Bartowski looked at me was different. The expression of concern he'd had for his sister disappeared, replaced with awe—like it had been raining, and the sun had just burst from behind a cloud. His mouth fell open and he tried to speak, but no words came out.

God help me, but I thought it was adorable as hell.

I smiled at him, and he smiled back—a beautiful, innocent smile that made me want to rescind everything I'd said to Ellie. More than that, I wanted to rewind time and pretend I'd never accepted this assignment. I wasn't worthy of that smile. I knew I never could be.

Chuck shook himself—literally, like a dog coming in from the rain—and his gaze slid from mine. "Ellie?" he said again.

When I glanced over at his sister, she was grinning. "I'm fine, little brother. We were just having a little girl talk. You know how it goes. This is Sarah Walker, our new neighbor. I was just about to invite her to join us for Thanksgiving."

"That's great, sis," he said, then turned and held out his hand to me. "Hi … I'm Chuck."

"Sarah," I said, taking his hand in mine. His skin was warm, sending a shiver through me that I shifted in my seat to conceal.

I had no idea how I was going to complete this mission; no idea how to continue treating these people like marks; no idea of how I was going to betray their trust by using them to lure their father out of hiding, only to be pressganged into servitude by the CIA.

But there was something I was absolutely sure of.

I was in a hell of a lot of trouble.

* * *

A/N: Thoughts? Should we keep going, intermixing these updates with the updates for ASITHOC? We'll leave it up to you.

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	3. Fallen

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 3: ****Fallen****  
**

I tried to stay composed, feigning cool detachment … but after Chuck touched my hand, an unfamiliar yet powerful sensation swept over me, consuming me as surely as a forest fire in dry season. The rest of my world became an unimportant blur, banished into the far recesses of my mind. The only thing that mattered was the thought of him touching me again … kissing my mouth, my neck, my … everything. I'd never felt like this. My hand tingled and my heart beat erratically, so hard that I thought it might actually pop like a bubble. I was trapped within a kaleidoscope of butterflies, my stomach doing somersaults … but it felt good. Really good.

Chuck's gaze wandered around the room, unable or unwilling to hold my own for more than a few seconds. I remembered what Bryce had said about how uncomfortable he felt around pretty women. And I usually didn't get self-conscious around men, but Chuck was different, somehow. My body hummed deliciously when I saw his crooked smile for the first time, and I found myself wishing I'd showered and changed when I'd gotten off the plane.

I finally had to admit to myself what I'd known since I saw his picture in Graham's office, but had been too afraid to acknowledge: I was drawn to him, for reasons I couldn't totally explain. And against the ridiculous odds I'd just placed in front of us, I desperately wanted to be with him. I'd never so much as held a meaningful conversation with the guy, and on paper, we had nothing in common. I was a spy; he was a tech guru working a job far beneath his skill set. I was wary and paranoid; he was compassionate and giving. I had no family, unless you counted a mother I didn't speak to and a father who was behind bars; he had a sister who was as fiercely protective of him as a mother lioness. But for some reason, when I looked into his eyes, I saw the other half of myself. I saw my home.

But it was too late, wasn't it? I couldn't unring that bell. The trap had already been set, the pieces aligned just so. A vise wrapped around my heart, squeezing as it ratcheted down inch by painful inch.

After a moment, Chuck sat down at the table, declining Ellie's offer of tea and regaling us with hilarious yet bizarre stories from what he lovingly referred to as the Nation-State of Buy-Moria. It took me a minute to realize this must be the store where he worked—the Buy More, according to the dossier Graham had given me. Bryce was right, Chuck had a biting sense of humor … but the more he talked, the more furious I became that Bryce had derailed his education and, by extension, his career. He was wasted at the helpdesk of a big box store like that. He could've headed a team at Apple or Google, or hell … started his own business. The CIA had interfered with his life once too often, and here I was … the snake in the grass that had wriggled its way into his house, pretending to be his lonely, innocent next-door neighbor. I hated Bryce for screwing with Chuck's life that way—and I hated myself even more, for trying to do it again.

"Sarah? Are you okay?" Ellie's hand was warm on my forearm. "You look like something's bothering you."

Damn. I usually had a better poker face than this. "I'm sorry," I said, forcing myself to smile at her. "I'm just tired from the flight. I only got in a couple of hours ago."

"Of course. And then there's the time difference to think about. Sarah just moved here from DC," Ellie told her brother, tactfully omitting my supposed reason for fleeing across the country. "We won't keep you. I know you still have your grocery run to make. There's a Whole Foods that's not too far from here, if that helps."

"That sounds perfect," I said, pushing to my feet. "Thanks so much for inviting me over—and for the invitation to Thanksgiving, too. What can I bring? I can't say I'm much of a cook, but I can pick up a couple bottles of wine, if that works for you."

"Oh, you and my sister are gonna get along just fine," Chuck said, grinning at me as Ellie cuffed him on the back of the head.

"I hope so," I said, truthfully. "And I really do hate that I have to run, but after my shopping spree, I should probably eat something and try and catch up on some sleep."

In reality, I needed sanctuary—a place to escape their ruthless assault on my overloaded senses. Every time they looked at me, I felt as if I might actually burst into flames. The shame was suffocating. It was crazy, but after encountering Chuck face-to-face, I couldn't help but feel like I'd just thrown away something precious—a chance that came but once in a lifetime. The shy smile he gave me as I edged my way towards the door tore at my heart.

It wasn't just Chuck, either. Meeting both of the Bartowskis, feeling so connected to them, and knowing what I had to do next—that my goal was to worm my way into their lives, only to betray them both—felt like a cruel joke. The despair was a heady blackness, seeping through every part of my body like spilled ink.

Tears filled my eyes as we said our goodbyes and Ellie shut the door of their apartment behind me. I paused by the fountain, hoping the sound of the flowing water would soothe my heartache. Through my blurred vision, I saw hundreds of coins at the bottom of the basin—some green with age while others had that freshly-minted shimmer. I glanced down at them through the clear water—each one a heartfelt wish or prayer. Each one represented pain … but also hope.

Digging a hand into my pocket, I pulled out a penny, the smallest change I had, and tossed it in, watching it sink, joining the others. "For him to catch me as I fall," I whispered, mindful of the courtyard's surveillance, feeling ridiculous even as the words left my mouth. How could Chuck be my safety net when I was taking him down with me?

I stood still, listening to the water slosh into the fountain's basin, wishing things were different. Maybe, in some alternate universe, things could've worked out between us. Bryce would find a way to lure Orion out of the shadows that didn't involve using me as bait. Ellie would become the best friend I'd ever had. And the love I'd seen in Chuck's eyes when he looked at his sister … he would look at me that way, and I … I would return the favor.

It was a pipe dream, meant for someone who hadn't grown up to lie and scheme and connive. Someone normal. Someone _good_. But as I gazed into the shallow water of the fountain, I allowed myself to believe in it, just for a minute. After all, we all needed hope to survive, even if it was just pennies in a wishing well.

OoOoOoOoO

The next morning, I made my way over to Maison23 to meet with Bryce and go over our mission's sitrep, as planned. I wasn't looking forward to the debriefing, but I couldn't beat back the coming dawn any more than I could the rising tides. For Bryce as well as the watchful eyes back at Langley, last night must've looked like a rousing success—a textbook demonstration of manipulation and spycraft, deploying all that I'd learned over the past four years. In truth, I'd never felt like more of a failure. I was exhausted, shamed by the kindness of total strangers who were supposed to be nothing more than quarry in my crosshairs. Falling asleep last night had been a pointless endeavor as I'd tossed and turned, my duty as an operative warring with my guilt-ridden conscience. My very soul felt heavy as I drove toward Larkin's apartment, about to collapse under the weight.

My knuckles hovered a mosquito's breath away from the kelly-green door of his apartment, reluctant to make contact. Bryce Larkin was on the other side and I wasn't sure I had it in me to deal with the likes of him, especially after last night. He represented the antithesis of everything I had put into that wish by the fountain, the counterpoint to Chuck Bartowski. In retrospect, maybe Bryce was the person I deserved to be partnered with for my involvement in is this type of treachery. Someone proficient in the art of the double-cross. A true virtuoso—especially when it came to screwing over his ex-roommate and supposed friend. Graham must've thought I could learn from his example.

Let the lessons begin.

As soon as I knocked, I heard frantic muffled voices, one of which sounded way too feminine to belong to Bryce.

Unbelievable.

The door swung open after a tick, and a disheveled-looking leggy blonde—who bore an uncanny resemblance to myself—stepped out of his room, shooting daggers back at Bryce. She looked up, caught sight of me … and went ballistic.

"Who the fuck are you?" she snarled, her blue eyes gone to slits. I half-expected her to start foaming at the mouth.

Well, Bryce wasn't the only person that could dish out the lessons. He needed to learn that if he was going to be a reckless idiot while playing in the big leagues, he'd face the consequences when he got caught doing something stupid. What was he thinking, bringing a girl up here when he was supposed to be maintaining a low profile?

The temperature in the hallway plummeted as I gave the little tramp my coldest stare, crossing my arms over my chest. "I'm his wife, you hussy," I said, barely holding in the mirth I felt for throwing a monkey wrench into Bryce's plans. "What the hell are you doing in my husband's room?"

"Wife?" she said, wide-eyed, spinning to face Bryce. "You never said you were married."

"Tiffany … I can explain," Bryce said from inside the room. His plea fell on deaf ears.

"You asshole," she screamed, and tore off down the hallway, heading for the elevators.

I slipped inside his room, closing the door behind me, and found Bryce sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands. He looked up, exasperation lining his face.

"Was that really necessary? You're early, after all. You could've at least called to warn me. Hell … a text message would've been enough."

Warn him? He couldn't be serious.

"I'm only ten minutes early and you should've known better than to have someone up here in the first place. You're gonna end up blowing this whole operation because you can't keep it in your pants."

"If I didn't know better, _Agent_ Walker," Bryce said, "I'd say you were jealous."

What an egotistical prick. "Of _Tiffany_? Please. The only thing to be jealous about is her current proximity to you. Where did you find her anyway … a strip club?" His dejected face spoke volumes. "Never mind … I don't want to know. Let's just get started. I shouldn't be here any longer than I have to, and this God-awful room is starting to make me feel queasy," I gave him a pointed look, a single eyebrow finding its mark, "on many levels."

I wasn't exaggerating, either. I'd never seen so much green mixed with silver in my life. It was like the designer's muse was a cross between a drunken leprechaun and Liberace's wet dreams. Thank God, this mission didn't require me to stay here as well.

Bryce huffed out a breath, stood, and walked over to his computer system, which was identical to mine. A file folder rested on the edge of the desk.

"Here … this came by courier last night," he said, handing me the folder. "It's more intel on Chuck. The analysts back at Langley were able to comb through his cloned hard drive. They didn't find any ties to Orion, but they did find some software Chuck's been working on that completely blew them away. They'd never seen anything so advanced. An antivirus program and the start of his own search engine. It even caught Graham's eye. He sends his compliments, by the way, about your performance last night. I'll admit, it was really impressive. Ten minutes with you and Chuck's already snagged on your hook. You just need to reel him in."

Now I was confused. We'd had an enjoyable conversation, sure … but I'd felt like I was more on his hook by the time I left. "I'm not that confident, Bryce," I said, meaning every word. "I just met him."

"Are you kidding me?" he said, his bewilderment apparent. "I've never heard him speak that way about anyone."

Now I was sure I was lacking some vital piece of information. "I'm sorry … but you have me at a loss. What am I missing here?"

"I take it you haven't reviewed the surveillance footage from after you left their apartment?" The smug bastard was clearly enjoying my ignorance.

I shook my head. "No, I was exhausted by the time I got home and went straight to bed." Truthfully, I didn't have it in me to intrude into their private lives any more than I already had. I felt dirty enough as it was.

"Trust me," he said, as if that was a remote possibility, "you'll want to watch the whole thing. I almost feel sorry for the guy. It was even worse than when he met Jill."

Of all the hot-button issues Bryce could have referenced at that moment, Jill—and particularly, what Bryce had done with her—was the hottest.

"Tell me, Bryce. Call it morbid curiosity, but did you sleep with Jill out of spite or was it because you'd already figured out Chuck was ten times the man you'd ever be and you wanted to completely destroy him for it?" When he opened his mouth to respond, I held up my hand. "Don't bother … it was a rhetorical question."

I threw the file folder in his lap. "You can keep the additional intel on Chuck. I'm sure he has everything I'll ever need." My eyes went wide as I realized, belatedly, that the last sentence was as true as any I'd ever spoken.

Spinning on my heel, I stormed out of Bryce's apartment, slamming his door behind me.

OoOoOoOoO

By the time I got home, I could barely contain myself. What could Chuck have possibly said that had left such an impression on Bryce—and Graham, too, for that matter? Consumed by curiosity, I jerked open the front door, ran to my bedroom, and tried to wake the computer. To my utter annoyance, the Windows 'Automatic Update' box hovered at around 33%. Oh, come _on_. Now, of all times?

Pacing the room, running my hands through my hair, I waited impatiently as the progress bar crept across the screen. It took an eternity. Finally, the mother of all updates was complete and I logged in, holding my breath.

My hands shook as I opened the recordings folder, found last night's footage, and hit play—fast-forwarding until the moment I'd left. Turning up the volume, I leaned forward, captivated.

On the screen, Chuck got up from the dining room table and walked into the kitchen with Ellie in his wake. Wordlessly, he started washing the dishes left in the sink while Ellie finished putting away the groceries. I zoomed in to get a better look. Every few seconds, Ellie glanced over at Chuck, who seemed to be lost in thought. Her lips twitched in a teasing smile. I peered closer. She actually looked like … was she vibrating?

"You know, Chuck," Ellie said, breaking the silence, "she really is perfect for you, don't you think?" The intensity of the vibrations increased ten-fold while she waited for his reply.

Wait—seriously? Hyper-protective Ellie thought I was perfect for her brother? Warmth washed through me, until I realized that most of what she knew about me was a lie. Maybe she thought I was perfect for him because we were both good people who'd been victimized—sheep who'd been attacked by wolves. The problem was, I was the wolf in this scenario … the predator they'd let into their home. A sick feeling settled in my stomach as I waited for Chuck to respond.

"Yeah," he said after a long moment, his voice soft. "She's perfect."

Great. Chuck thought I was perfect, too—but he was only responding to the same packaging that had ensnared so many unsuspecting marks over the past four years. My face, my body … they were the lure that Graham wanted me to use to draw Chuck in. If Chuck saw the real me, the ugliness that came from doing this job and the life I'd led, he wouldn't want anything to do with me. I felt like a walking version of Dorian Gray's self-portrait … except the scarred version of my soul lived inside me, invisible to everyone but myself.

The smile spread across Ellie's face until she glowed with happiness. "Aha! I knew it." She jumped up and down, clapping her hands. I knew what she must be thinking … the pretty, single neighbor; her kind, smart, single brother; a match made in heaven. My guilt grew, oppressive and unyielding.

Chuck sighed, leaning against the counter. "Knew what?" he said, looking exasperated—and maybe a little embarrassed, too. "What are you even talking about?"

"Sarah, of course," Ellie said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You've got it bad, little brother. I can see it in your eyes. And you know what? I could see it in hers too. This is so great."

No, it wasn't. It was awful. I'd done my job, all right—and following orders had never made me feel so miserable. She thought I was perfect for her little brother. I'd obviously gotten his attention, too. And apparently, everything I'd felt for him in the brief time we'd been in the same room had shown on my face. Thank God, Graham and Bryce thought I'd been acting, playing a scripted part. But I knew better, and I was disgusted with myself.

On the screen, Chuck shook his head. "Stop being ridiculous, sis. You're not helping." He turned back to the sink, picking up the dish he'd been drying.

"How am I being ridiculous? I'm just telling you what I saw."

Chuck's shoulders tensed, a steel wire stretched, about to snap. "I said stop it, Ellie." His voice had a warning edge.

I couldn't blame him. I wanted her to stop it, too … though for entirely different reasons. Why did Chuck want her to knock it off? He seemed far more uncomfortable than the situation warranted.

Ellie stepped up beside Chuck at the sink, leaning over to look at his profile. Whatever she saw must have troubled her, because her tone softened. "Fine … I'll drop it if you answer one question for me."

He turned off the water, giving his sister his full attention. "As long as you promise to quit teasing me."

Ah—so maybe that was it? He thought she was joking about what she'd seen in my eyes … because he thought I couldn't possibly want to date him. What had Bryce said … that compared to the two of us, Chuck was a loser? Apparently, Chuck shared his opinion—and now I felt worse than ever. The only guy I'd ever been interested in, and here I was, using him as a pawn.

I couldn't keep going in circles this way. Maybe there was something I could do to salvage the situation. I couldn't back out of the mission, but at least I could make the time I spent with Chuck mean something. I could get to know him, be honest with him about what an amazing person he was and the gifts I knew he could offer the world. It sounded cheesy, but maybe I could help to restore his faith in himself. Spending time with him would be its own reward.

The resolution strengthened, a spark fanning into a flame. I realized now that the wish I'd made yesterday—_for him to catch me as I fall_—had been selfish. I might've been falling for him, but Chuck was the one who'd already fallen. He'd lost his parents, his degree, and his career. I should have wished for something else entirely—for me to have the strength to lift him up, no matter what it cost me.

"What did you think when you first saw her?" Ellie said. "And be honest with me, Chuck. You know I can always tell when you're holding something back."

Chuck's head dropped as he clung to the edge of the sink with a white-knuckled grip. Even through the monitors, I could see that he was struggling with something. He pushed back with a huff and walked out of the kitchen.

I changed the camera feed to the living room and got a good look at his face. Anguish was written all over it. What in the world?

Ellie followed him, stopping a few feet away. "Talk to me, Chuck." Worry etched lines in her forehead. "What's wrong? This isn't about 'She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,' is it?"

Bullseye.

Chuck deflated, like someone had let the air out of his body. He dropped into the recliner, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. After a moment, he scrubbed his palms over his cheeks and looked up, as if collecting his thoughts.

"Yes … and no," he said. "You asked me what I thought when I first saw her. The simple version—my superficial reaction—was that I'd just met … an angel. She's the most exquisite woman I've ever seen. No one else has even come close. Hell … I was afraid to look directly at her, Ellie. It was like looking into the heart of the sun."

The passion in his voice, the conviction in his eyes … it floored me. No one had ever said anything like this about me before. They'd whistled at me when I walked by, wanted to sleep with me … but none of them had ever compared me to an angel or a star. Not to mention, this was the way I felt about Chuck, not the other way around. I stared at the monitor, stunned.

"I knew it." Ellie's voice was heavy with conviction.

"But it was more than that. She had elegance and grace and intelligence." The words came faster now, as if once he'd started speaking, he couldn't hold them back. "You were right, sis … she _is_ perfect … and that's the problem and why you really need to drop this and move on. I know you, though. You're gonna keep pushing and pushing, but I'm telling you, it's pointless."

"What are you talking about?" Her eyebrows knitted in puzzlement. "She's perfect, so it's pointless? For someone who aced his Propositional Logic class at Stanford, you're surprisingly terrible at drawing conclusions."

He slumped, his whole body telegraphing dejection. "Ever since Jill, I've come to realize that happiness is for someone who doesn't indulge in flights of fancy—who isn't the gullible dweeb that gets stabbed in the back by his best friend and cheated on by the girl he loves … _loved._" The misery in his voice wrecked me. "I just can't do it. I can't be the guy that takes those kinds of chances anymore. I had my head in the clouds once too often. I can't afford to do it again. I'm just a nerd in a dead-end job making ten dollars an hour. What could I possibly offer someone as remarkable as Sarah?"

The irony in this situation was too thick to cut with one of my knives. He'd convinced himself he wasn't good enough for me, whereas I was the one who'd perpetrated an elaborate fiction to earn my seat at his Thanksgiving table. I'd thought I couldn't feel any worse about the situation … but I'd been wrong. My determination to fix what Bryce and the CIA had done to him grew even stronger. I would do whatever I could to make things right.

Ellie rounded the chair and crouched down in front of Chuck, her hands on his knees. "Charles Irving Bartowski," she said, her voice fierce, "let me tell you a story. There's this guy I'm quite fond of that you annoyingly refer to as Captain Awesome no matter how many times I've asked you not to. He's handsome and brilliant and kind and treats me like a princess. Any girl would be lucky to have him in their lives, and I count my blessings every day that I was fortunate to capture his heart. We have something real and to me … he's the one." She squeezed Chuck's knee. "Now some may say that I'm biased—that I lack the objectivity for the assertion I'm about to make. But I don't play to fools and I'm smarter than your average bear. So trust me when I say this … on Devon's _best_ day, he'll never be half the man you are."

"Come on, Ellie. You have to say that. You're my sister."

"Sister or not," Ellie said, standing to make her point, "I'm not the only one who thinks so. I saw the look in that gorgeous blonde's eyes when you two met. I'm a woman, Chuck. I know these things. Even though you guys didn't have a chance to spend much time together, she's already smitten, just like you … or well on her way—crushing _hard_ for my wonderfully nerdy little brother—I'm sure of it. And unlike that whore of Babylon that you sullied this house with when you brought her here, I really … really like Sarah. It bears repeating … she's perfect for you."

Wow. Graham must've done his repressed version of a happy dance when he'd heard that little speech. I could picture him folding his hands on that pristine desk of his, saying, "You've outdone yourself this time, Agent Walker. Perhaps you missed your calling as an actor." No wonder Bryce was over the moon.

"Just think about it, okay?" Ellie said, a wheedling tone in her voice. "She'll be here tomorrow night, so please keep an open mind and just talk to her? Her business is hers, but you have a lot more in common than you think. You've wallowed in grief for far too long for what those two lecherous trolls did to you."

Chuck snorted. "'Whore of Babylon'? 'Lecherous trolls'? Don't hold back, Ellie. Tell me what you really think."

"I just call 'em like I see 'em, little brother." She folded her arms across her chest and stared him down. "You can't let the past rob you of this opportunity, or any others that may come your way. There's something in my gut that tells me … she just might be _the one_ for you. And you know how often my intuition about these kinds of things turns out to be right."

This was more than I'd bargained for, especially because I'd felt the same way. It wasn't possible that my soulmate would be a guy I'd been ordered to screw over, was it? Surely fate wouldn't be that cruel.

"You're not gonna let up, are you?" Chuck said, a wry grin quirking his lips.

"Nope." She popped the 'p,' and in that moment I was sure I could tell exactly what she'd looked like as a little kid—stubborn, headstrong, and unwilling to back off until she got her way.

"Fine," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'll keep an open mind … but I still think you're crazy."

I hit the 'pause' button, freezing the image of Chuck on the screen. Right now, it sounded like Chuck thought there was no reason to hope his life could change. I understood; so often, I'd felt the same way about my own existence. Maybe I could find a way to help him—find a way to undo some of the wrongs that had been perpetrated against him. I couldn't stand the idea of causing him more pain. Just the thought of being here as a means to Graham's end was starting to become unbearable.

But first I needed to grab a couple bottles of wine—since I'd been too shell-shocked to make it to the store last night—and then go shopping for a dress to wear to the first Thanksgiving dinner I'd attended since I was a little girl. I didn't want to taint the evening with anything the CIA had bought for me. The next time Chuck saw me, I would be wearing something I'd picked out myself, not an outfit that was part of the mission.

They were small steps, but important ones. And they gave me hope. If Chuck could change, then maybe I could too?

A smile playing at the edges of my lips, I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed Graham's number. "Ms. Stanwyck?" I said when his secretary answered. "It's Agent Sarah Walker, calling for Director Graham. Please tell him it's important."

* * *

A/N: We really appreciate the outpouring of support that we've received from the last few submissions. Please keep it up if you are so inclined. Words can't express what that kind of response does to our motivation to keep up the pace. Rest assured that we haven't forgotten about ASITHOC—we've already started on the next chapter—but as Emily gears up for the next phase in her treatment, we felt it easier to flesh out more of this story before alternating back and forth between the two.

A/N 2: Our next chapter—Thanks-Misgivings—should be a lot of fun, and will set the tone for the rest of the story. As some of you may have already figured out, this is not a spy adventure like our other fic. It's a narrative about an unlikely romance and we'll be treating it as such, so hang on to your hats (and your hearts).

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	4. Thanks-Misgivings

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 4: Thanks-Misgivings****  
**

Hope.

Even though so much felt balanced on the head of a pin—being partnered with Chuck's nemesis; the lies about myself that I'd already told Ellie; the ultimate goal of this mission—there was a newfound light within my heart. Right now it was merely a spark of hope, a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds … but I could feel its warmth seeping in, permeating every cell of my body. Maybe this feeling was just naïve optimism, the anticipation of good things that might never come to pass—but it was a sensation I hadn't had in such a long time, it felt as foreign as it was welcome.

In part, that spark of hope stemmed from my phone call with Graham, which had gone much better than I'd anticipated. Not only had the director been receptive to my request, he'd had the same notion since the inception of this mission, and had put the wheels in motion long before Bryce and I had come to his office. Chuck could be the final puzzle piece he needed to make Omaha a success, after all, and Graham knew how to play the long game.

It bolstered my spirits to know that my presence in the Bartowskis' lives would have more than one purpose—a sub-mission, if you will. Yes, I would still have to lie to protect the cover I'd created for myself—but something good could come out of it, especially for Chuck. If Bryce had a problem with the outcome … tough shit. He had it coming.

I hummed as I stood under the spray of the shower, letting the hot water wash away the stress of the past twenty-four hours. A promising conversation with Graham, a gorgeous new dress, and an evening with a guy who made me believe in the possibility of new beginnings—what could've been better, given the situation?

The intoxicating scent of vanilla and lavender swirled, clinging to the mist that filled the room as I stepped out of the tub. I'd shaved, exfoliated, washed and conditioned my hair, and scrubbed every inch of my body with the overpriced, fragrant soap I'd picked up from Whole Foods. Tonight, I would be the woman beneath the mask, not a temptress sent to lure an unsuspecting mark. Tonight, I was just a girl, trying to gain the attention of the boy who'd captivated me.

And I had no freakin' idea how to do this. But I was willing to learn.

I wiped steam from the bathroom mirror and took a good look at my face. My cheeks were flushed from the hot water, my eyes overly bright. I didn't recognize the woman staring back at me. Was it my imagination, or did I look … different somehow—less jaded, more like I had before Graham had gotten his claws into me?

As I reached for my Alba Botanica body lotion, my thoughts lingered on the dress I'd bought for tonight. The moment I'd seen it, I'd known it was the one. It was a shade of blue that matched my eyes, with a midi-length skirt that fell to mid-calf and a keyhole neckline. The material was a soft jersey, hugging my curves without being obnoxious. I already owned the perfect shoes—silver-and-blue kitten heels that complemented the dress as if they'd been custom-made for the occasion.

When I dressed up, I liked to do it from the skin out. I hadn't been able to resist buying some sexy new lingerie … not that I thought Chuck would be seeing it any time soon, but sliding the silky material over my skin made me feel confident. Taking the dress from its hanger, I slipped it over my head, then dried my hair, shaping it into flirty curls that framed my face.

I did my makeup carefully, going for elegant but understated: navy blue eyeliner, mascara, and a hint of blush. Then I slipped on my heels and stood in front of the mirror.

I looked … excited. Almost like a normal girl going on her first date with a guy she liked, not a CIA operative infiltrating a family dinner. And maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

Grabbing my black clutch and the burlap bag that held two bottles of wine, I stepped out into the courtyard. As I passed the fountain, I thought about my wish from the night before. It had taken on color and weight in my mind, so much so that I felt like the possibilities were no longer all that far-fetched. At least there was hope.

When I drummed up enough courage to knock on the Bartowskis' door, I was surprised to find a short bearded man with an uneven bowl-cut standing on the other side, a look of wonderment filling his eyes.

"Vicki Vale," he whispered reverently.

What the hell?

Ellie's voice cut through the soft jazz playing in the background. "Morgan," she said, sounding irritated. "What did I tell you about answering my front door?"

So this was Chuck's long-time best friend that I'd read about in his dossier. Not wanting to be rude, I held out my hand. "Hi, I'm Sarah. Chuck and Ellie's new neighbor."

With a sheepish grin, Morgan shook my hand. I could have sworn I heard him mutter the word 'jackpot' under his breath.

He tried to recover, standing on his tiptoes to overcompensate for our height difference. "_Enchanté_." He backed far enough away to let me enter and bowed, giving a Vanna White flourish of his hand. "Right this way, m'lady."

Was this guy for real?

"Sarah?" Ellie made her way out of the kitchen, wiping her hands with a dishrag. "Come in … come in." She walked up to Morgan and shoved him out of my personal space, nearly tipping him over. "Don't mind him. He's actually harmless. We like to keep Morgan around to scare away the other rodents."

"Aw, Ellie. You know you love me." His sappy tone and the look of yearning on his face confused me, especially given her demeanor toward him and what I knew about her boyfriend, Devon. I glanced over at Ellie to see if this was just playful banter.

Nope. Her look said it all … almost.

"Yeah, Morgan … about as much as listening to a self-help audiobook narrated by Fran Drescher." I had no idea who Ellie meant, but it didn't sound like a compliment. "Come on, Sarah. Let's head to the kitchen. I'd hate for you to catch something standing out here."

I followed her, walking past Morgan. His shoulders slumped as he flopped on the couch, picking up a controller with a huff and resuming the video game he must've been playing when I knocked. I almost felt sorry for the guy.

"Here … a little libation for the occasion," I said, handing Ellie the bag holding the wine as we made our way into the kitchen. The room smelled amazing, like every idealized Thanksgiving I'd ever dreamed of as a kid, eating frozen dinners with my dad in front of the TV: herbs and roasting meat and the sweet, tart scent of hot apple pie.

A man stood with his back to us, bent over the stove. He turned, closing the oven door, as he heard us come in. I knew at once this must be Ellie's boyfriend, Devon: tall, with the build of an athlete and the piercing gaze of someone who hid his fierce intelligence behind a frat-boy exterior. Completing the picture was the forest-green apron tied around his waist that read, in big white letters, KISS THE COOK.

He'd been basting the turkey when we walked into the kitchen. Setting the baster down on a ceramic spoon-holder next to the stove, he held out his hand to me. "I'm Devon, Ellie's boyfriend. You must be Sarah."

"Nice to meet you," I said, shaking his hand. His grip was warm and confident.

"Sarah brought wine," Ellie said brightly, extracting it from the bag. "Pinot Noir and Chardonnay."

"I didn't know what you liked," I said, suddenly feeling shy. "I hope it's okay."

"Pinot is Ellie's favorite." Devon turned back to the stove, grabbing a jar of spices and sprinkling it over a baking dish. "As are these party potatoes. They're whipped with cream cheese, sour cream, and chives … topped with butter and paprika. I make 'em for her every year. They're delicious—but I gotta say, it's a good thing we've got a cardiovascular surgeon in the house. Right, babe?" He shot a smile Ellie's way.

"They're a heart attack waiting to happen," Ellie said, giving me a rueful look. "But my mom made them every year when I was little. I didn't get a chance to tell you much about our family, but … well, my mom … she left us a long time ago. I don't have much that belonged to her, except this recipe. I hope you love it as much as I do."

"I'm sure I will. It looks amazing," I said, which was nothing less than the truth.

Devon widened his smile to include me. "The stuffing's almost done, too—but I need fresh sage to finish it off right. Where's Chuck, Ellie? He took off for the grocery store almost an hour ago."

Well, that answered the question I'd been burning to ask. I'd been trying to figure out how to frame it without sounding too eager. Luckily, Devon had done it for me.

"He called me fifteen minutes ago. Said the first place he went was out of sage, so he had to go to another store. He'll be here in a few minutes." She sighed. "We're missing flour for the gravy, too. Every year, we forget some kind of crucial ingredient. I'm beginning to think it's a holiday tradition."

The idea of a holiday tradition—especially involving the Bartowskis, who were like some kind of sitcom family, despite their less-than-ideal beginnings—sounded too good to be true. The only tradition my dad and I had had involved watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade while he went on and on about how easy it would be to steal the spectators' wallets when they were distracted by the floats.

I shook my head, dispelling the memory, just as the front door of the apartment swung open. I heard Morgan greet Chuck, and then the latter came walking towards the kitchen, talking as he went. "Ellie? I got the sage, but it was the last bunch and it's seen better days. And they only had these giant bags of fl—"

His voice cut off abruptly, swallowing the rest of the word, as he walked into the kitchen and saw me. "Hi, Chuck," I said, as his eyes opened wide, his mouth followed suit, and he dropped the paper bag of groceries onto the floor.

Apparently, the dress was a hit.

God … the look on his face—his candid adoration—it undid me. Struggling, I bent down to help retrieve the items that'd spilled and give myself time to recuperate from the warmth that'd flooded through my body. The blush that was snaking its way up my neck was not something I wanted Chuck … his family … or the surveillance to pick up on. His reaction to me was simply the cutest thing I'd ever seen.

We nearly butted heads as he bent down to clean up the mess. With him in such close proximity, I finally picked out the smell that'd calmed me yesterday when I first stepped into their apartment. Turned out … it was Chuck. I couldn't tell if it was his cologne, body wash, or just the man himself, but whatever it was, it hit me like a drug. Who the hell needed Xanax when they could just spend time with him?

"I'm so sorry," Chuck said, scooping sage leaves off the linoleum. The plastic shell that housed them had split open, and the aroma of crushed sage filled the air between us. "I'm not normally this clumsy. I mean, sometimes I am, but not like this. I don't normally just … drop things. Usually I have better control over my limbs, I swear to God."

I had to fight back the urge to laugh. "Why are you apologizing?"

"I don't know. For making a terrible second impression, I guess?" He shrugged, sealing the plastic clamshell shut. His fingers were shaking, though, and some of the leaves spilled back onto the floor. I reached for them at the same time he did, and our hands brushed. Electricity jolted up my arm.

Chuck wouldn't meet my eyes as he scooped up the plastic container and the flour. "Here," he said to Ellie, straightening up. "Take these before I end up pulverizing them."

I stood too, stepping away from him just in time to see Ellie and Devon regarding us, wearing identical amused looks. "You all right there, man?" Devon said, his mouth quirking up at the corners.

"Fine," Chuck mumbled, his gaze fixed on the counter, where Ellie'd set my hostess gifts. "Hey, look, wine! Who wants a drink?"

It was the most transparent effort to change the subject I'd ever witnessed, but I didn't care. I didn't want their attention focused on us either … and right now, I could certainly use a drink.

In the ensuing kerfuffle—drinks all around, Devon's decision to practically sterilize the sage, and then the ritual carving of the bird—my awkward encounter with Chuck was soon forgotten. Well, _I _hadn't forgotten it—and from the way Chuck kept glancing over at me when he didn't think I was looking, I didn't think he had, either—but at least no one was staring at us like we were some kind of adorable zoo exhibit.

We sat down to dinner at last, Ellie at the head of the table and Devon opposite her. That left the three of us; Morgan, unsurprisingly, chose one of the seats adjacent to Ellie, and Chuck sat down next to him … which put me opposite Chuck. I didn't know if this was a gift or the worst seating arrangement ever. How would I handle looking into those gorgeous brown eyes of his all night long without squirming in my seat?

We settled in and started passing dishes around the table. The conversation turned to past Thanksgivings, which in turn led to stories about Chuck, Ellie, and Morgan's bizarre childhood.

"So, yeah. There I was in third grade, having to defend Morgan against a giant fourth grader: Tristan Ramsey," Chuck said, pouring himself another glass of wine. "Morgan kept calling him Stan Stan Stan. Really rubbing it in, too … like, 'how's it going, Stan Stan Stan?' 'Whatcha doin' this weekend, Stan Stan Stan?' I thought it was funny as hell. Apparently, Tristan didn't share my opinion."

"What can I say?" Morgan cracked open a grape soda, taking a swig. "When life gives you lemons, you should peel one in front of the other lemons. You know … to send a message."

"That's nothing," Ellie said, raising her glass in a salute. "One time, I listened to these two nerds argue—for hours on end, mind you—about whether coral was the stupidest animal, or the smartest rock." She snorted, eyes watering with amusement.

"Oh yeah?" Chuck said, his crooked smile lighting the room. "Who was it that decided she could no longer drink Kool-Aid because the Kool-Aid man carried a smaller picture of Kool-Aid and she was convinced she'd be drinking his pee? Uh-huh … yeah, Dad told me about that one, sis."

I don't think I'd ever laughed that hard in my life. As they talked, I could picture it: Chuck, cracking up while fending off Stan Stan Stan as Morgan kept running his uncensored mouth; Ellie freaked out by a fruit punch commercial, grimacing with every sip. I wasn't sure if the three of them were getting wittier as the evening wore on or if the wine just made everything seem so much funnier, but it didn't matter. I was having a blast—at least until there was a lull in the conversation and Morgan decided to direct the attention in the room towards me.

"So, Sarah," Morgan began, "where did you say you were from?"

"All over, really. But I just moved here from DC." I spooned more stuffing onto my plate, deciding tonight was a guilt-free zone. I'd exercise twice as hard tomorrow, to rid myself of the carbs.

"Yeah? Where do you work?" He'd gotten his hands on the marshmallow-topped sweet potato casserole—I didn't know anyone actually made those outside of the movies—and was ladling it onto his plate like he needed it to survive. I hoped no one else wanted some, because by the time he finished serving himself, the dish might be decimated.

This was a tricky one. I obviously couldn't tell the truth … but I didn't want my relationship with Chuck and Ellie to be based on nothing but lies, either. "I work in the intelligence community," I said, forking turkey onto my plate. "I'm looking for something new, but I haven't found a good fit yet. Anyway, the job I have right now is flexible … it gave me the freedom to move out here."

"Yeah?" Morgan said through a mouthful of sweet potatoes. "The 'intelligence community', huh? Like what? The FBI? CIA? Do you go on secret missions, Bond-style? I've always thought that Chuck here was smart enough to have a job like that, if he would just—"

"Do you want some salad, Morgan?" Chuck interrupted him, tension clear in his voice. To be honest, I felt a little tense myself. How had this idiot—and I didn't care if Chuck had been friends with him for years; his elevator clearly didn't go all the way to the top floor—come so close to hitting the mark?

"Salad?" Morgan gave him a quizzical look. "Nah, man, you know how crunchy green substances freak me out. Might as well go outside and take a bite out of a tree. Anyway, Sarah, like I was saying, Chuck here's a bona fide genius. Did you know he went to Stanford?"

"Shut up, Morgan." Chuck's voice was a growl.

I had a sinking feeling this wasn't going to end well. "No, actually I—"

"Because he did," Morgan went on, like a human wrecking ball. "And he would've graduated top of his class too, if this total asshole hadn't ruined his life by framing him for cheating and sexing up his—"

There was a clatter as Chuck pushed his chair back, his expression stricken. "Excuse me," he muttered, stalking away from the table. The front door slammed behind him, and a hush fell over the room.

Morgan glanced around, looking clueless. "What'd I say?"

I wanted to hit him over the head with the sweet potato casserole. If he liked it so much, he could damn well wear it. He deserved as much, for humiliating Chuck that way. He was Chuck's best friend, for God's sake … not that I understood why, but the fact remained. He should have known better.

I wanted to hit Bryce Larkin, too, but of course he wasn't here. Well, I was sure I'd have plenty of opportunities in the future. Morgan was right on one count—Larkin gave "total asshole" a bad name.

Ellie stood, looking as upset as her brother. "I should go after him," she said, dropping her napkin onto the table.

"Let me." The words had escaped my mouth before I knew I'd intended to say them, but once I'd uttered them, there was no going back. "I know he doesn't really know me," I said, fumbling to offer an explanation, "but this is your family dinner, Ellie, and I'd hate to take you away from it. Stay here, enjoy your meal."

"That's kind of you," Ellie said, exchanging a look with Devon that I couldn't quite read, "but he's my little brother, and you're our guest. Not to mention—what Morgan let slip … well, it's a sore subject for Chuck, to say the least."

"That's exactly why I should be the one to go out there." I could hear the eagerness in my voice, but was powerless to suppress it. "Everyone else at this table probably knows this story, which means the only person he'd be embarrassed in front of is me. Maybe if I explain to him that I don't care—that none of that matters to me—he'll want to come back inside. I'm not sitting here judging him based on something that someone else did. I mean, I've just met him but I can tell he's a kind, and honest person. Whatever happened, I'm sure it wasn't his fault."

Ellie regarded me for a moment, then nodded. "You're right, Sarah. Maybe you're exactly who he needs."

Was I imagining it, or had she chosen her words carefully, insinuating I could be a good fit for Chuck—that he needed me in his life—beyond rectifying this awkward moment? The impish grin that tugged at the corner of her lips made me think that I was right. Even though I'd only known Ellie Bartowski for a short while, I had the feeling she didn't miss much … and she wasn't afraid to speak her mind. I gave her a timid smile in return as I made my way towards the door.

When I got outside, I found Chuck sitting on the edge of the fountain, peering into the basin. I couldn't help but think he might be staring at my wishful penny, connecting us in a way that transcended the explicable.

When he heard my heels clicking on the flagstones, he looked up, his face a cloud of emotion. His glassy eyes were on the verge of spilling over.

"God … what you must think of me." He shook his head, looking back towards the water. "Your pathetic neighbor who can't even make it through a family dinner without losing his shit."

I couldn't just stand there and watch him suffer like this. In no way should this incredible man feel guilty for something Bryce—and by extension, the CIA—had done to him. He deserved so much better than me, but at least I could strive to become the kind of person who was worthy of his company … and perhaps much more.

"Why would I think that?" I said, with complete candor. I sat down beside him and placed my hand on his. The jolt that had shot up my arm when I'd touched him before now claimed my whole body. This was dangerous on so many levels, but at the moment, I couldn't find a reason to care. Throwing caution to the wind, I spoke straight from the heart. "All I see is an extremely handsome and charming man who's had a lot of bad things happen to him. Morgan's lack of tact aside, it sounds like someone from your past—someone who you trusted—betrayed that trust. Am I right?"

He nodded, his eyes still on the coins glinting in the fountain's basin.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" I asked, wanting desperately to hear his perspective on how things had gone down. "I've been told I can be a great listener. And I won't judge you, either … I promise. I know _exactly_ how it feels to have one of your friends stab you in the back." I squeezed his hand. "Trust me, Chuck."

He spun to face me, and for the first time since I'd met him, his brown eyes locked on mine, unwavering. It was a little unsettling. His eyes were mesmerizing and filled with such emotion, turning my insides to goo. The longer I forced myself to hold his gaze, the more I could see into his depths, and the harder I fell with each passing moment. His heart wasn't merely on his sleeve … it was … everywhere, making mine beat in triple-time. I could see his wheels turning, caught between his reluctance to embarrass himself further and a deep desire to share his story with me—to share all of himself, if I'd allow it. I could see it clear as day. It was the most intimate moment of my life. I felt as if we'd merged into some kind of shared plane of existence. Deep down, in the furthest recesses of my soul, I knew that I would never be the same. I was his, for better or for worse, and that scared and thrilled me in equal measure.

His eyes dropped, and, haltingly, he began to speak. He told me everything—how he'd met Bryce on his first day at Stanford, their close friendship, his two-and-a-half year relationship with Jill … and then how Bryce had betrayed him, getting him kicked out of school and sleeping with his then-fiancé. His words came slowly, each syllable ragged, as if they'd been ripped out of him.

"It was a little over six months ago," he said finally. "And I've been … well, I've been kind of messed up since it happened, if you want to know the truth. My best friend, the girl I loved—it turns out he wasn't my friend at all, and she obviously didn't love me back. My education, my career … all of it, up in smoke. When Morgan said what he did, I just reacted. I'm so sorry you had to see that. You'd think I'd be over it by now. But no, I'm still poking around in the wreckage like some kind of apocalypse survivor, searching for life." His eyes flicked to mine, scanning my face. "So, now you know the whole pathetic story—why I'm destined to fail at whatever matters most."

It took me a moment to find my voice. My heart ached for him … now, more than ever, I wanted to punch Bryce's smug, chiseled face. Actually, I wanted to drop-kick anyone who'd even think of hurting Chuck again. Jill, Graham … his parents for leaving him … they could all get in line.

"You're not a failure, Chuck." I twined my fingers through his. "You said it yourself. You're a survivor."

"Yeah, well, I suck at it." His jaw clenched. "I wouldn't have to be any kind of survivor if I hadn't trusted the wrong people, but I don't want to be the kind of guy who's paranoid about everyone he meets. I want to believe there's good in people. I think that's the worst part … feeling like Jill and Bryce almost took that from me. I don't want to be cynical and bitter. But it's hard, when everything I worked for all my life is gone."

Shifting his weight, he looked down at our joined hands. Silence fell between us for a long moment, and then he spoke again. "Sitting here with you, Sarah—it's like being next to the sun. I can't explain it, but being with you makes me feel better, like I've been all alone in a dark room and now the light's shining in. You probably think I'm an idiot for saying something so cheesy when I've just met you, but I've felt so shitty for so long and I just—well, I really—"

"Shhh … I don't think you're an idiot," I said, reaching up to cup his face. "I think you're sweet."

And then I kissed him.

It wasn't the passionate kiss I craved—just light pressure of my lips against his—but when I drew away from him, my whole body shook. He stared at me, his expression dazed, like I was indeed a star or an angel. "Why—" he began, but I interrupted him again.

"Because I believe in you, Chuck. You're amazing, and don't let what those bastards did to you make you think otherwise." I squeezed his hand for emphasis. "Your life just hit a speedbump, that's all. You may have swerved, but you haven't derailed … if you'll forgive the metaphor. I'm sure things are about to get much better."

His mouth curved upward in a wicked grin. "They already have."

God, that smile of his … I would do almost anything to see it again. Chuck thought I was the sun, but he was wrong; it was the other way around. I needed to find a way to tell him the truth about everything—to step out of the shadows and into his light. Sure, I could get fired … or sent to prison, even … but it was my only path forward.

My father had always said that doing the right thing—being noble and altruistic—usually cost more than it paid. I used to believe him—but of all the choices in my life that held lasting significance, those 'right things' shone the brightest. I never claimed to be a saint, nor a hero, but I liked to think I'd learned the meaning of honor and integrity. Perhaps my father had it backwards. It was doing the right thing that really paid, because making any other choice could cost you your soul—maybe not all at once … or in chunks you could notice.

But just a sliver at a time.

* * *

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	5. Out of the Ashes

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 5: Out of the Ashes****  
**

I awoke refreshed and rejuvenated, a tawny cat stretching in the early morning haze. Bars of butter-yellow sunlight fell across the pale blue comforter, and I traced one of them absently with a fingertip, remembering everything that'd happened last night. God, it felt too good to be true—like some kind of fantastical dream.

Chuck and I had never made it back inside to rejoin Thanksgiving dinner. We'd gotten so caught up in our discussion that before I knew it, shadows swept the courtyard and hours had passed us by, unnoticed. He was so easy to talk to—a beautifully chaotic, brilliant conversationalist who made me feel as if my heart was skipping rope. He'd brought out a sense of playfulness that was far out of character for me … but also wonderful.

We'd chatted about everything—our tastes in art and literature, where we'd traveled, our favorite foods, the way we saw the world. The more I'd listened to him talk, the quicker my façade crumbled … leaving only Sam, let loose from her self-imposed cage. He had a way of making me laugh, even when the topic was serious, that I'd never experienced before. By the end of the night, my cheeks hurt from smiling.

It'd always been hard for me to talk about myself—I was prone to obfuscation—but I'd done my best, and was proud of the fact that I hadn't lied to him once, even under the tight scrutiny of the ever-present courtyard surveillance. Sure, I'd done a lot more listening than talking, but without even realizing it, I found myself telling him things I'd never shared with anyone.

The whole time, I'd never let go of his hand. It felt like an anchor tethering me to the moment—as if losing my grip on his fingers would cause our entire encounter to dissipate, like smoke escaping an empty palm. More than anything, I wanted it to be real—nothing between us shrouded behind the veil of a CIA-sanctioned mission for the sake of national security.

I'd noticed Ellie peeking through the curtains a few times as the night wore on, but she never came outside to interrupt us—which, I supposed, was a tacit kind of approval. She wasn't the proverbial shrinking violet. If she was uncomfortable with me staying outside with her brother, instead of sitting at her dinner table, she'd step out into the courtyard and say so.

I knew, of course, that Ellie wasn't the only one watching—that the courtyard was being monitored by Bryce as well as the analysts back at Langley—but for the life of me, I couldn't find a reason to care. With any luck, Graham would interpret the kiss and my willingness to share intimate details of my life as unwavering dedication to the mission's objectives. And if he didn't … well, it was still worth it in exchange for the miracle that this evening had turned out to be. I wouldn't take back a second of it.

Morgan finally broke the spell that'd settled over us when he'd left to go home. I'd dropped Chuck's hand as soon as he walked out of the Bartowskis' apartment, not sure how much Chuck wanted his friend to see. They'd made small talk for a few minutes before Morgan headed out. When he thought I wasn't looking, he'd given Chuck the cheesiest double-thumbs-up imaginable.

By that time, night had fallen in earnest. Like the gentleman that he was, Chuck walked me to the door of my apartment. He stared down at me, an uncertain look in his eyes. "Thank you for everything, Sarah … for talking me off a cliff … listening to my story," he'd said, his voice shaky. "I can't begin to tell you how special tonight was for me."

The hesitancy in his voice—as if he thought I might laugh at him or discount what he'd said—slayed me. "Tonight was special for me too, Chuck," I'd said, imbuing my tone with all the sincerity I could manage. "As are you."

And then, before I could lose my nerve, I'd gone onto my tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

The first time I'd kissed him had been impulsive, spurred by the need to let him know how amazing I thought he was, how foolish he'd be to internalize the crap life had dished his way. I didn't regret it—quite the opposite—but I wanted the second time we kissed to matter … to really mean something. So instead of doing what I really wanted—twining my hands in his curly hair and inviting him inside—I'd contented myself with the most innocent expression of affection I could imagine: A peck on the cheek.

I'd meant it to be chaste, but it didn't feel that way. It felt intense, and … erotic. I could feel the roughness of his stubble against my lips, could hear his harsh intake of breath. He smelled of soap and cinnamon, with an undergirding hint of Chardonnay.

Wanting more—and both excited and terrified by the thought—I'd stepped away. "Good night, Chuck," I'd said, feeling breathless. He looked as dazed as I felt. His gaze followed me as I closed the door of my apartment behind me.

I'd lain awake for hours, remembering every detail, feeling euphoria course through me. When I'd finally tumbled into sleep, it had been the most restful night I could recall having in years.

That sense of giddiness was still with me this morning, making me feel impossibly light. I knew I had to get up, but I wanted to savor the moment for just a little longer. I closed my eyes, letting myself sink down into the warm bath of my memories.

At which point, with impeccable timing, my phone rang.

I lunged for the bedside table … and felt my heart sink when I saw Graham's number flash across the screen. What if he'd seen right through me?

In the split second before I answered, I reminded myself that I'd only been doing what he'd asked me to. I'd kissed marks before. There was no reason for him to believe this was any different. But somehow, that only made me feel worse.

I sucked in air and hit the 'accept' button. "Walker, secure," I said, scooting up so my back was against the headboard. He couldn't see me, of course, but it went against the grain to take a call from the CIA's director while lying in bed.

I couldn't see Graham either, but when he spoke, it sounded like he was grinning. "Excellent job, Agent Walker. You have Bartowski right where we want him. That kiss was genius—and that speech about believing in him … Oscar-worthy. Kudos, once again."

Relief flooded me. "Thank you, sir," I said, keeping my tone humble—and trying to shed my guilt. Graham might view Chuck as a mark right now, but I knew that wasn't his long-term plan. Chuck could have been my partner, after all. Maybe he still would be—although I hoped not, for his sake. He was too good for this life.

"I would expect nothing less. You're truly gifted. Recruiting you remains one of the best decisions of my career." He paused, giving me time for the compliment to sink in—and I sat in silence, letting it. Manipulating me into joining the CIA might have been one of the best choices he'd ever made … but I was starting to believe that going along with it hadn't been one of mine. I'd done it to save my father and my own hide, but still … for the first time in four years, I'd begun to believe there might be something better for me out there.

"Now," Graham said, oblivious to the conflict raging inside me, "to the business at hand. You'll need to be at the Buy More today before noon, ostensibly to visit Bartowski. A messenger will be arriving to deliver something important to him, and you should be there when he receives it."

"Understood, sir." I kept my tone neutral as glee bubbled up inside me. This had to be part of the plan we'd discussed. I couldn't wait to see Chuck's face when he heard the news.

"Excellent. I'll expect a full report later today. Make your way over to Agent Larkin's residence to deliver it. I have business to discuss with both of you. Until then." And as per usual, he hung up before I could say another word.

Usually his terseness bothered me, but not today. In a few short hours I would get to see Chuck again, and even better, I'd helped put something in motion that would restore a piece of what he'd lost. Humming, I got to my feet and headed toward the shower. It might be November, but today I planned to wear a dress whose color was as bright as my mood.

OoOoOoOoO

As I pulled into the Buy More plaza, I was astounded by the sheer number of cars. It'd taken a while, driving in meandering circles, to find someone who was leaving before I could pull in behind them and park. Luckily, I'd been so excited that I'd gotten there with plenty of time to spare, forgetting that it was Black Friday. The truth was, I'd been missing Chuck all day and was desperate to see that beautiful smile of his. There was no point in denying it. After just one amazing night, I'd become addicted, craving the sight of his wayward curls and honey-colored eyes. I remembered his dumbfounded expression when he'd seen me on Thanksgiving—the way the bag of flour and sage had crashed to the floor—and hoped the semi-fitted saffron midi dress I'd chosen had a similar effect.

Looking up as I approached the store, I had to laugh. BUY MORE. The name itself, posted in huge yellow letters above the entrance, said it all: _Engage_ _in rampant consumerism, all ye who enter here.  
_

The doors slid open, revealing a packed interior, avid shoppers shoving each other out of the way in hot pursuit of a bargain. Glaring fluorescent lights illuminated aisles labeled with green-and-white signage, announcing movie genres, CD players, audio accessories, and a thousand other items. TVs lined the far right wall, each playing a different blockbuster. Never having lived anywhere long enough to put down roots, I didn't get why it was such a big deal to have the perfect flat-screen or the ideal sound system … but I guess everyone had their own vice. Mine was somewhere within the walls of this paean to conspicuous consumption.

As if the Buy More itself wanted to point me in Chuck's direction, the store's central aisle led to the Nerd Herd desk, which sat beneath a massive sign suspended from the ceiling. I spotted Chuck at once, talking to an elderly man with white hair whose back was stooped, his posture dejected. Next to the man stood a little girl with pigtails and a green paisley dress. Her black Mary Janes were scuffed and the dress was a bit too small, but she was adorable nonetheless. She couldn't be any older than five or six and I could see her bottom lip sticking out in a pout all the way from where I was standing at the front of the store. Intrigued, I wove my way through the side aisles to a place where I could observe and listen in—but not be seen. I was a spy, after all, and watching Chuck was quickly becoming my favorite pastime.

"I'm sorry, princess," the man was saying as I got closer, his expression stricken—as if he hated to let her down. "This is more than Grandpa was planning on spending. Is there something else you might like?"

The little girl sniffled, clutching a green-and-white portable video system. She looked up at her grandfather, her eyes filled with tears, and my heart clenched. "I know it's a lot," she said, her voice wobbling. "It's okay, Grandpa. Please don't be sad. We can find something else."

She clearly didn't want to upset him, which broke my heart even further. If she'd been a spoiled, whiny kid, that would have been one thing. But here she was, trying so hard to pretend like she hadn't _really _wanted the gaming system, wiping away her tears with the backs of her fists and giving her grandfather a tremulous smile. I wanted to buy her the darn thing myself.

Chuck cleared his throat. His face mirrored the way I felt—desperate to fix this somehow. "Actually, there might be something I can do. I just remembered that the Leapsters are going on sale next week—half off. What if I just offer you the discount a little early?"

The older man shifted uneasily. "We wouldn't want to ask for any special treatment—"

"It's no problem at all. Really, I'm happy to do it." He smiled down at the little girl, whose expression transformed from disappointment to hopeful joy.

She jumped up and down, clutching the … what had Chuck called it? A Leapster? "Please, Grandpa, please say yes!"

Her grandfather's gaze turned back to Chuck. "Are you sure it's not a problem?"

"It would be my pleasure," Chuck said, coming out from behind the desk. "Here … let me walk you to the registers."

My heart melted when I saw the little girl reach up to slip her hand into Chuck's as they walked down one of the aisles. Instead of looking surprised, he acted like it was the most natural thing in the world. He smiled down at her with the warmest eyes I'd ever seen as she skipped alongside beside him, making their way to the front of the store.

As the three of them stood in line, the little girl tugged on Chuck's hand to get his attention. He crouched down to her level and her words came almost too quickly for me to understand as she told him about all the games she could play on the Leapster. Chuck nodded along, adding to her excitement when he told her about some of the ones he'd played himself.

When it was their turn, Chuck stood and leaned over the counter, whispering in the cashier's ear. She grinned, shaking her head as if he'd just told her the sweetest thing she'd ever heard, and proceeded to ring up the sale. It seemed no one was immune to his charm.

Their purchase made, the man and his granddaughter left the store, the girl skipping all the way out into the parking lot … and only then did I see Chuck pull out his wallet and hand the cashier a wad of bills.

My eyes narrowed. The Leapster-thing hadn't been on sale at all. Chuck was making up the difference in price out of his own pocket.  
.

I didn't think I could fall any harder for this guy … but I'd been wrong.

He made his way back to the Nerd Herd desk like nothing had happened … as if he hadn't just committed an act of extreme generosity to make a little girl's day. I used the time to pull myself together, running a finger under my eyes to wipe away the tears that had welled up. Only then did I sneak back through the aisles, stepping out from behind a towering display of shatter-proof phone cases.

"Hi, Chuck."

It felt like such an inadequate greeting after what I'd just witnessed, but he didn't know I'd seen anything, and I wanted to keep it that way. I had the feeling anything else would embarrass him.

At the sound of my voice, his head swiveled in my direction and a smile spread across his face. "Sarah! What are you doing here?"

"I knew this would be a crazy day for you, so I brought us lunch." Walking up to the desk, I held up the white deli bag filled with Italian subs I'd bought at the strip mall across the street: chicken parmigiana for me and a pastrami on whole wheat for him. I'd even grabbed a couple cannolis.

His smile widened even further, almost making my knees give out. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know I didn't, but I wanted to." I smiled back, helpless to stop it.

"Well, whatever's in the bag sure smells amazing." He set his palm at the small of my back, leading me away from the desk. "Come on … we can eat in the break room."

I leaned into his touch, but the moment we'd rounded the corner into one of the aisles, he dropped his hand. His mouth opened, as if to speak—right before Morgan came loping into view.

"Chuck," he said, skidding to a halt when he saw me. "Oh … and Sarah. Hey, Sarah. Nice to see you again."

"Hi, Morgan." I lifted my hand in a wave, grateful that he didn't try to shake my hand.

"Dude, it must be your day for visitors," he said to Chuck. "Some old geezer's here to see you."

"Really? Because I'm not expecting any—" Chuck's voice died as a man stepped out from behind Morgan. He was tall, maybe in his late sixties, with salt-and-pepper hair, a black suit, and a leather suitcase that looked like it had seen better days.

Perfect timing. Graham's messenger had arrived.

Seeing him, Chuck's face went red, then white. "Dean Adams," he said, in a voice that barely managed to remain level. "Fancy seeing you here. Sarah … this is Stanford's Dean of Engineering. You know … the guy I told you about—the one who had me thrown out of school."

Adams looked at me, standing next to Chuck, clutching my deli bag. "Can we talk in private, Charles?"

"Actually, Sarah and I were just about to enjoy the lunch she brought us. Plus … she's my friend. We don't keep things from each other." Chuck's tone, typically gentle—at least in the brief time I'd known him—could've been used to chisel diamonds. "Don't worry, she knows about everything that _really_ happened at Stanford. Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of her."

Guilt ricocheted through me. I had more secrets than a Catholic priest after a full month's worth of confessions—including the reason for the dean's presence at the Burbank Buy More. Were secrets necessarily bad, though, if they helped someone else? Or was I just deceiving myself?

"Fine, fine." The dean held up his free hand in surrender. "It's up to you, Charles."

Chuck glanced over at me, as if trying to gauge my reaction. "Sarah stays ... _if_ she wants to."

I nodded, doing my best to look innocent. "If you want me there, of course I'll stay."

"Thank you," Chuck said, sounding as if he meant it. Maybe he thought the dean was here to deliver more bad news—but what did he think the guy could possibly have in mind after failing to grant him his degree and tossing him out on his ear? "That being said, I think I can find us a better place to have this conversation than in between the memory sticks and the DVDs. Please … step into my office."

Chuck led the way to the break room, the sarcasm in his voice thick—doubtless meant to remind the dean of the fact that he likely would have had his own office … or even his own company … if Stanford hadn't thrown him under the bus. I followed in his wake, trying to conceal my excitement at what I knew was coming. Luckily, no one was paying attention to me.

He swung the break room door open and we stepped inside. The room was gray: Gray walls, gray door, gray circular tables ... a place where creativity went to die. A small kitchen area was tucked to the left of the door, with black cabinets and a—surprise, surprise—gray countertop, on which sat a microwave and coffeemaker. Across the room was a wall of beige lockers. The only pops of color were the hideous blue chairs that hugged the tables, their backs studded with circular holes … as if their designers had been inspired by a block of Swiss cheese.

Chuck gestured to the closest table. "Please, have a seat."

The dean slid into one of the horrible chairs, and Chuck and I followed suit. I put the bag of sandwiches on the table, where it immediately began to leak grease onto the laminated surface. Lovely. I looked around for paper towels, but they were across the room and I didn't want to abandon Chuck, who was radiating anxiety. He perched on the edge of his seat, drumming his fingers on his knee as if his nerves were frayed to the quick.

"I'm sure you're wondering what I'm doing here," the dean said when all three of us were settled.

"I am." The words came out clipped, and a fine sheen of sweat shone on Chuck's forehead. "The last time we talked, our conversation was less than pleasant. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that it ruined my life. So, forgive me if I'm not too excited to see you show up at my place of business, without any kind of warning."

The dean winced. "Totally understandable," he said, placing his briefcase on the table. "But I hope you'll change your mind after you find out why I'm here."

He popped the lock on his briefcase, removing an embossed leather-bound jacket and an envelope with the school's emblem on it. He handed both to Chuck, who took them without a word.

His hands trembling, Chuck opened the cover … and gasped. Tilting my head, I could read the top line, "The Leland Stanford Junior University," inscribed in fancy script.

"What is this?" Chuck's hands began to shake harder. The jacket slipped through his fingers and landed on the table. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"It's your diploma, son. And long overdue. You've earned your degree in Electrical Engineering, with honors, I might add."

"But what—but why—how?" The words caught in Chuck's throat, like fish impaled on hooks beneath the surface of a troubled lake. He tried again to speak and ended up sputtering into silence.

"We were wrong." The dean placed a hand on Chuck's shoulder. "I know now that you didn't cheat on that test—that you were framed. I also know who did it. We've rescinded Bryce Larkin's degree and let Professor Fleming go. He's lost his tenure and his retirement, and there are potential further legal consequences for both of them. You did nothing wrong, Charles. I should have never doubted you."

Chuck ran his fingers through his hair, struggling to maintain his composure. Gripping the diploma in his other hand, he said, "Who told you? Why now?"

"I'm afraid our sources are confidential. But entirely trustworthy, I assure you." The dean drew back his hand, smoothing the front of his suit jacket. "Now if you would, Mr. Bartowski … please examine the contents of the envelope. There's one more thing we need to discuss."

Obediently, Chuck turned the envelope upside down. A check fell onto the table. He leaned over to peer at it—and choked. "Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars? For what?"

"It's a settlement, Charles—for lost wages, defamation of character, and your pain and suffering, which"—he glanced pointedly around the Buy Room's break room—"seem to have been considerable. Stanford is also offering you free tuition for any post-graduate work you might choose to pursue."

I bristled at the implied insult, but it didn't even seem to register with Chuck, who looked stunned.

"I … I don't know what to say." His voice trembled. "I just … thank you."

"There's no need for thanks." Clicking his briefcase shut, the dean leaned back in his chair, which creaked in warning, as if announcing its intention to shunt him onto the linoleum. He straightened hurriedly, his eyes on Chuck's face. "Stanford owes you a tremendous apology, as do I, on a personal level. I should have known better than to believe the accusations leveled against you. This is the least you deserve, and I am sorrier than I can say that you've spent the past six months thinking some of the people who should've had the greatest faith in you decided you were unworthy of that faith. I only hope that in time, you can forgive us."

A faint smile lifted Chuck's lips. "Well, sir," he said, his voice more confident than I'd ever heard it and his gaze flitting between the check and the diploma, "I'd say this is an excellent first step."

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck sat, holding the diploma balanced carefully on both his palms, as if he was afraid it would shatter if he let it go. The dean had shown himself out, and Chuck and I lingered in the break room, which had taken on the distinct aroma of chicken parmigiana. Giddy with the success of my plan—and grateful to Graham for coming through in such a dramatic way—I could barely breathe.

"This is crazy," Chuck said, as if to himself. "I feel like … maybe I'm dreaming. First meeting you, then all of this. With that money, I could start my own business, like I've always wanted. I could buy a car. I could move out of my sister's house. But more than that, my diploma … my reputation …."

His voice trailed off, as if he lacked the words to describe the implications of Dean Adams' visit. He sounded stunned, and I couldn't blame him. Here he was, sitting in the break room of the crappy store where he'd worked for the past six months, holding a Stanford diploma and staring at a check for a quarter of a million dollars with his name on it. I was sure he couldn't make more than $10 an hour; it had been a sacrifice for him to pay for half of that sweet little girl's Leapster. That check represented at least 25,000 hours of working at the Nerd Herd desk, doing what, for a guy of his intellect, amounted to menial labor—and I was sure that during every single one, he couldn't help but think about what he'd be achieving if Bryce and Fleming hadn't screwed him over.

He'd done all the work to earn that diploma, of course. It was his by rights. But I couldn't help but feel privileged to have played a small role in making sure he'd received it, after everything that had befallen him. No matter what else I'd done in the name of justice and liberty—some of it decent, some of it underhanded—this was by far the accomplishment of which I was proudest. Looking at Chuck's face, his expression flitting between shock, joy, and disbelief, I knew his happiness was all the reward I needed.

He set the diploma down on the table and took both of my hands in his. His fingers were warm, his grip sure. This close to him, I could smell the now-familiar scent that had come to mean _Chuck_, the one that both calmed me and sent my head spinning. "You said you believed in me, Sarah—God knows why. You've just met me, and within the first twenty-four hours that we've known each other, you learned the worst about me that there is to know. You should've thought I wasn't worth your time. I'll never understand why you didn't—why you saw the good in me, why you said all those kind things." He swallowed, hard; I could see his Adam's apple shift. "I've been through six months of hell. I lost everything I thought I wanted. And then you showed up yesterday and told me things were going to change for the better … and now look what's happened." He let go of one of my hands to gesture at his diploma.

"I don't know why you said what you did, Sarah. I don't know why you kissed me." His voice broke. "But I know one thing for sure. I never even thought to wish for someone like you. You're like some kind of … some kind of angel."

Even though I'd heard him say this on the surveillance recording, the word still took me by surprise. How could anyone think that about me? He was a gift—my gift.

"Trust me, Chuck, I'm no angel." My gaze fell from his, lighting on the uneaten bag of sandwiches.

Gently, he lifted my face. "You know how you said you believed in me? Well, let me return the favor. I might not know you very well, but I'm usually pretty good at reading people—Bryce and Jill aside—and I think you're an incredible person. You're passionate, insightful, funny, kind … God, I could go on forever."

I couldn't think of a single thing to say. Luckily for me, he was still talking.

"Ellie didn't give me the specifics, but she told me you moved out here all alone, to make a change in your life. Would it be too arrogant for me to hope you'll let me be a part of that?"

My mouth went dry. "I—" I began, and couldn't manage another word.

"Normally I wouldn't be brave enough to do this. I mean, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I wouldn't have the courage to speak to you, much less ask you what I'm about to." He squared his shoulders, as if bracing himself, _here goes nothing _practically stamped across his forehead. "Do you want to go out on a date sometime? I mean on a date without my sister watching us through the curtains?"

So he'd seen Ellie peeking at us too. His sister was a lot of things … but subtle wasn't one of them.

Anxiety filled me—what if I screwed this up? It took a moment for me to find my voice. "So, like a real date, then?"

He fidgeted, glancing away. Then his eyes found mine. "Yeah. What do you think? You don't have to say yes if you—"

His nervousness was charming, but I didn't want to make him suffer any more than he already had. Looking up at him through my lashes, I said after a beat, "Okay."

A slow grin lifted his lips. Then it vanished, and he looked shocked all over again—as if my response were as surprising as the Stanford diploma he held in his hands. "Really?"

"Mm-hmm," I said, nodding—the most socially acceptable response I could manage. I wanted to do a little dance right there in the Buy More breakroom, throw my arms around Chuck and kiss him—hell, blow a kazoo, if one were available.

"Tonight," Chuck said, looking from me to his diploma to the check and then back again, as if checking to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. "Our first real date."

* * *

A/N: Hi, everyone! This story has been so much fun to write. We hope you're enjoying it as much as we are! Just FYI, Emily has surgery next Wednesday (3/18). We plan to put out another installment before then, but depending on how things go, we may need to take a brief break while she's recovering. After that, though, we'll resume writing!

A/N #2: Although we've reached out to everyone individually, special thanks go out to Crazzywally, Tecmaster86, Grayroc, David Carner, Karla1707, fezzywhigg, gombek69, lindsdee, ReaderNotAWriter85, jwatkins, coreypeters009, atcDave, Dillwg, Reyes9, sram15, Kacper983, Tpsoftballdad, Charahfsn, uplink2, Mike B, mjd1969, Deathzbreath, WillieGarvin, xxx Rob M xxx, Tigertod, James K, bigfan22, michaelfmx, PeterOinNYC, Vurich23, and the guests that have taken the time to chime in.

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	6. A Date with Miss Fortune

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 6: A Date with Miss Fortune****  
**

In the short amount of time it took me to drive from the Buy More to Bryce's apartment, my mood did a complete 180—from total elation that Chuck had asked me out, to crippling panic as the reality of the situation set in. My anxiety owned me, pushing against me like an invisible gale, attempting to reverse my course.

But I wasn't willing to keep living life trapped behind self-imposed, refortified walls, never peeking over the top to see what lay beyond. I was so tired of existing in a world where people justified their actions for the sake of the greater good. I didn't know what I was going to do, but unless this tempest could turn back the clocks, drag the sun from the sky, and inject Chuck and Ellie with amnesia, my time had come … as would the truth. It had to. I could no more avoid it than the beating of my own heart, pounding fitfully against its cage of bone and cartilage. The falsehoods I'd perpetrated felt like a personal demon, sitting heavily upon my chest—and only I could hear the sharpening of its blades.

I was all in, and that was the problem. The truth could either set me free or bury me where I stood.

When Bryce opened the door of his apartment, his jaw was set and his eyes held a look that could only be described as flinty. He didn't say a word when he saw me standing there, just stepped aside so I could enter.

Great. He was sulking, like the world's most chiseled three-year-old. Well, that didn't mean I had to put up with it.

"What's your problem, Larkin?" I said, folding my arms across my chest.

He shut the door behind me and leaned against it, looking pissed. "_My_ problem_? _I'm not the one that looks like she's falling for her mark. You may be able to fool Graham, but not me. No … it looks to me like the Ice Queen's been defrosted by a gangly nerd working at a fucking Buy More. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Try and deny it all you want, but I know what I saw. That was no performance."

He glared at me, and I glared back, unflinching. Maybe it was a strange parallel to draw, but the situation reminded me of the parable of Peter's denial of Christ. My grandmother had recited that story—along with the rest of the Bible—to me when I'd been forced to stay with her, in an attempt to safeguard me from my father's 'misguided influence.' I was determined not to wait for the rooster to crow before I acknowledged Chuck … and what he meant to me now.

Earlier, I'd asked myself whether secrets were necessarily bad, if they ended up helping someone else. I decided that it depended on your goal. In this case, if I wanted to be a part of Chuck's life, my secrets were like a slow-acting poison that could destroy any chance for a future with him … if they hadn't already.

Squaring my shoulders, I answered Bryce in the calmest voice I could muster. "You're partially right. That was no performance. You saw what you saw."

"Partially right? What the hell does that even mean?"

This felt pretty good, actually. "Well, you were off the mark by _just_ a tad. You see, I'm not falling for Chuck. No, I'd say I've fallen for him—as in past tense. We're talking hopelessly head-over-heels, can't think about anything else, wanting to jump his bones every time I look into those gorgeous brown eyes of his, kind of fallen."

Bryce squirmed a bit where he stood.

"And I doubt he'll be working at the Buy More for much longer," I went on, feeling more confident by the second. "My guess is he'll give a two-week notice. He's just that kind of guy."

The confused look that etched its way across his face was as pathetic as it was amusing. Obviously, Graham hadn't told him about what the fallout from today's meeting would mean for him … nor had Stanford. All in good time.

This was more fun than I would've ever imagined—and liberating, too.

"Why would he quit?" Bryce asked, stalking across the room and coming to a stop in front of the monitors. "You're not making any sense, Walker. I'm starting to think this is some kind of elaborate hoax."

Before I had a chance to reply, the monitors came to life and Graham's face appeared on one of the screens. I struggled to keep my posture relaxed, so as not to betray the nervousness I was feeling. This was it. _All in_, I kept reminding myself. _All in_.

"Report, Agent Walker," Graham said, the way he had so many other times during my career.

"Yes, sir." I took him through what had happened at the Buy More—from the moment Dean Adams walked into the store until the moment he'd left, complete with his apologies, Chuck's diploma, the settlement check … and Bryce's rescinded degree. My voice never wavered; I was simply stating facts. Let Bryce make of them what he would.

"Wait," Bryce said when I finished. "So my degree's just … gone? The CIA threw me under the bus?" He didn't sound nearly as calm as I had. His voice was inching upward by degrees; soon it would reach a pitch only dogs could hear.

I wanted to tell him that it was only what he deserved—that now he'd know how Chuck felt. But I didn't speak. I didn't have to. The _truth_ spoke for itself … as did the director.

"You brought this on yourself, Agent Larkin." Graham's voice was pure ice. "As you'll recall, the CIA never sanctioned your actions in the first place. _And_ as you'll also recall, you still owe me a sizable debt. This would be a poor time to develop a reluctance to pay it."

Bryce sputtered into silence, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. The air around him telegraphed menace and frustration, but I ignored it. If everything went well, I wouldn't have to put up with him for much longer. And if it didn't—well, the same went for that situation, too.

"Is there anything else, Agent Walker?" Graham said, pointedly choosing not to direct any more of his attention Bryce's way.

"Yes, sir. Tonight, I have a date with Chuck. He asked me out right before I left."

"Excellent." He gave what I'd come to think of his Plotting Villain smile. All it lacked was a mustache to twirl and the requisite evil cackle. "Now that you've ensnared him—so to speak—I want you to start pressing him for more information on how we might be able to find his father."

Before I could tell Graham that I'd happily burn in hell before I pumped Chuck for information about Orion, Bryce interrupted. "Sir … I feel it's my duty to inform you that Agent Walker's been compromised. Just before this meeting, she informed me that she's fallen for the mark—for Bartowski, sir. She shouldn't be allowed to remain part of this mission."

"Is this true, Agent Walker?" The smile was gone. In its place was a blank expression, waiting to be shaped by whatever I said next.

Without any qualms, I spoke the truth. "Yes, sir. It is."

He let out a heavy sigh. "Then I'm afraid Agent Larkin's right. You'll need to be reassigned and replaced."

"That is, of course, up to you, sir. While I disagree with your assessment—the decision still falls under your purview."

His mouth was a thin line of disapproval. "It certainly does, Agent Walker. You'll need to report back to Langley."

_Here we go. _"With all due respect, sir, I'm afraid I'll have to respectfully decline."

I'd never contradicted Graham like this, not even in the beginning, when I was seventeen and rebelling against everything and everyone. His eyebrows rose in surprise. "That wasn't a question, agent. It was an order," he said, each syllable a steel trap. "I need you back at Langley … _immediately_."

This was it—the moment where I found out just how much Graham valued what I brought to the table. I opened my mouth and, with perfect poise, said six words that would've been unthinkable for me to utter just seventy-two hours ago. "In that case, sir—I quit."

In my peripheral vision, I saw Bryce's jaw drop, but I didn't bother to look at him. All my attention was on Graham, who seemed as stunned as if I'd smacked him across the face with a carp … and just as horrified. "Now, Agent Walker, I think we should all calm down and take a deep breath," he said—which was ironic, because he was the one whose voice was threaded with panic. "There's no need to get carried away."

It seemed like this was the afternoon of _never_. I'd never felt the sort of feelings I had for Chuck, much less admitted it to someone else; never told Graham I wouldn't comply with something he'd ordered me to do; never been willing to walk away from the only career I'd ever had—and I'd certainly never heard Graham sound anything less than perfectly composed, except for the rare occasion on which he'd let his irritation bleed through. In that moment, I had a heady realization: I had the advantage here. Graham didn't want to lose me. The only question was, how far he was willing to go to make me stay?

Watching his face on the screen, I didn't say a word. Silence was by far my best weapon in this situation—as Graham ought to know. He'd used it against me more times than I could count.

"All right, Agent Walker," he said at last. "What do you propose?"

At this, Bryce finally lost his grip on his professionalism—and his temper. "I'm sorry, sir. Let me see if I've got this straight. She just confirmed that she's compromised—that she's got an inappropriate emotional attachment to the mark. She's willing to defy your orders … and beyond that, she flat-out stated she'd rather quit the Agency than follow them. And your response is to ask for her _opinion_?"

Graham stared him down, his expression hewn from granite. "It is, Agent Larkin. And I don't recall asking for yours."

Bryce subsided into silence, looking like he had to bite his tongue to make it happen, and Graham returned his attention to me. "Agent Walker. Your thoughts?"

"Well," I said, weighing my words, "I think we need to come clean with the Bartowskis and _ask _for their help instead of trying to coerce it out of them. And we need to remove the surveillance from their residence. Quite frankly, I'm surprised you were able to get a FISA warrant to bug their apartment in the first place."

Graham glared at me, his mouth twitching.

"If they found out about the bugs on their own," I said, thinking about the fierce intelligence in Ellie's eyes and Chuck's extraordinary affinity for all things electronic, "there's no way they'd ever cooperate. Chuck in particular has been screwed over too many times—pardon my language, sir—to forgive something like that. They'll get angry, and justifiably so … and then they'll refuse to help in any way, shape or form."

"Any more concerns?" Graham said, his tone arid as the Mojave.

"Yes." Feeling free to speak my mind was, indeed, incredibly liberating; what was he going to do—fire me? "Promise them that you won't try to force Orion into cooperating. Tempt him if you will—make him an offer he'll find hard to refuse. But don't browbeat him into it. He hasn't done anything to deserve that."

Graham's expression was as inscrutable as one of the faces carved into Mt. Rushmore. "Anything else?"

"Yes, sir. Remove Agent Larkin as my partner _and_ from this mission. He's too much of a wild card and a sore subject when it comes to both siblings. Why risk his exposure to them?"

Next to me, I heard Bryce suck in what sounded like half the air in the room. On some level, I felt bad for the guy. He was new; he was green; back in Graham's office, he sounded like he might've genuinely regretted what he'd done to Chuck. That didn't excuse him—but I wasn't without compassion. I'd been green once too, and all too ready to con anyone who crossed my path at the wrong time. I'd figured it was their fault if they were gullible enough to fall for one of my ploys. Now, of course, I knew better—but it had taken years of lurking in the shadows, then meeting the right person to give me the perspective I needed to find my moral center.

Graham's gaze flicked to Bryce, and I followed his lead. My fellow agent looked furious. "Permission to speak, sir?" he said, but Graham ignored him.

"Agent Walker, I'll agree to your proposals … for now … but I'll expect results," he said, folding his hands on top of his desk. "Agent Larkin, report back to Langley for reassignment." And he cut the feed.

Before I had a chance to savor my victory, Bryce stepped into my personal space, his face contorted with rage. "You bi—"

His eyes sprang wide at the sight of my knife—the same one I'd threatened him with on the plane. "Oh dear," I said, spinning the blade casually between my fingers and clicking my tongue like an exasperated schoolmarm. "Perhaps I've overstayed my welcome. I'll just see myself out."

Turning my back on him, I strode to the door and yanked it open. Emotions roiled within me as I stepped into the hallway—pride at besting Graham at his own game, relief at being rid of Bryce, happiness at not having to leave Chuck behind—but one feeling bubbled to the surface, overpowering everything else … spurring me onward, lightening my every step.

For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt free to follow my heart.

OoOoOoOoO

As I slipped on the little black dress I'd chosen to wear for my date with Chuck, my hands shook too hard to close the zipper. Since I'd left Bryce's apartment a little over three hours ago, my emotions had been ricocheting like the balls in one of those old-fashioned lottery machines. I'd felt excited, hopeful, determined, anxious, and resolved by turns. At the moment, the 'anxious' ball seemed to have landed on top, with no intentions of moving anytime soon. I had to sit down on the edge of my bed and remind myself to breathe.

The fact of the matter was, I'd never been on a date before. I knew 52 ways to kill a man with my bare hands … but when it came to romance, I was a total neophyte.

What if I messed this up completely? What if Chuck didn't like me as much as I thought he did? What if, once I told him the truth, he never wanted to speak to me again?

Shaking off the jitters, I got to my feet and resumed trying to zip up the stupid dress. Chuck had refused to tell me where we were going for our date, so I'd chosen my trusty LBD and a pair of black stilettos. Nude lipstick and gloss, a dusting of sparkly eyeshadow, blush, and mascara completed my ensemble. I applied my makeup as lightly as I could, figuring that on a first date, less was more—not to mention that my cheeks were already a hectic shade of pink.

What would I do if he ended up hating me after tonight? What if the look of total adoration he'd had since he laid eyes on me morphed into contempt and disgust? What if—

The doorbell rang, startling me out of my reverie. I went to answer it—and found Chuck standing on the other side, a bouquet of sunflowers in his hand. I noticed them first, along with his light-blue button down, navy-blue tie and blazer, dark-wash jeans, and black-and-white Converse. It was too nerve-wracking to look at his face. The guy'd been engaged, for God's sake. No matter how nerdy he might be, he'd probably been on dozens of dates. He knew how to act, whereas I had no clue.

Summoning my courage, I forced myself to glance upward—and was glad I had. Chuck looked as nervous as I was. He kept biting his lip, those gorgeous dark eyes of his fixed on me, his pupils wide. He tried to speak, and failed … adorably.

How could I tell him that I'd been spending time with him under false pretenses, but that meeting him had changed my life—in such a way that he'd believe me? How could I risk losing him? It was a good thing he spoke first, because I was suddenly too choked up to speak.

"Sarah." He cleared his throat. "Wow. You look … amazing. I—um—here … these are for you."

He thrust the flowers in my direction, and I took them, glad for something to do with my hands. "Thank you," I said, turning three shades of pink. "And for the flowers, too. They're beautiful."

"I—I hope you like them," he said, almost tripping over his words. "When I saw them, they somehow reminded me of you." His eyes fell from mine, and his face flushed bright red. "Oh, God, that was a stupid thing to say, wasn't it? Jesus, I can be such an idiot sometimes."

With my free hand, I reached out and adjusted his lapels, happy to have an excuse to touch him. "Relax, Chuck. That was sweet. And you look great, too. Very … dapper."

_Dapper?_ What the hell was wrong with me—had I somehow fallen into the 19th century? "Please … come in. I'll just put these in water, and then we can go." I turned away and rifled through the kitchen cabinets to hide my embarrassment, hoping the CIA had conveniently stocked my apartment with a vase. They hadn't, but I found a glass pitcher that would do, filled it with water, and arranged the sunflowers in it. I set them on the table and turned to find Chuck glancing around my apartment, doubtless taking in what he thought was my personal taste. Watching him, I felt even more guilty than before. _This isn't me, _I wanted to tell him. _Anything you think you're learning about me right now is a lie.  
_

I had to tell him the truth tonight … but I didn't want to ruin our evening before it had even started. If he wanted nothing to do with me after this—for which, quite frankly, I wouldn't blame him—then at least I would have some memories to savor.

I grabbed my clutch and we walked into the courtyard. As we passed Chuck's apartment, I caught a glimpse of Ellie peeking through the curtains again and had to suppress a smile, despite my guilt. I reached out and looped my arm through Chuck's, partially for her benefit and partially because I wanted to. He looked down at me with such a warm, tender expression that it almost knocked me off my feet. Anxiety welled in me once more, and it took everything I had to shove it down.

We made our way out of the courtyard and onto the sidewalk, where he gestured to a burgundy Honda Accord at the curb. "I rented it for tonight," he said, hurrying forward to open the door for me. "I didn't want you to have to drive—not because of some stupid chauvinistic reason, but because I asked you out, and you're new in town, so you don't know where things are, and … anyhow, I normally drive the Buy More's Herder, and it's definitely not a date-worthy car. So I rented this one. I know it's a little white-picket-fence-and-2.5-kids. I hope you don't mind."

Chuck, I realized, tended to babble when he was nervous—which was convenient, because I pretty much stopped speaking entirely under the same circumstances. "I don't mind at all," I said, and slid onto the seat, smoothing my dress beneath my legs.

He started the car and I rolled down the window, breathing in primrose and sage—and the comforting, entrancing scent of the man beside me. How could a person feel like home, when I'd never had a home to speak of?

"So," I said as he pulled out of the parking spot, "I guess you're still not going to tell me where we're going?"

Shaking his head, he grinned at me. "Not a chance. Although I will say that, much as I personally love your dress, you may find it a little … _confining_ for what I have planned."

"That's not my fault," I protested, grinning back. "You wouldn't tell me where we were going. I had no idea what to wear."

"I didn't want to ruin the surprise." He merged into traffic. "This is our first date. I wanted it to be special."

We drove for about thirty minutes, with Chuck pointing out places he liked to go, telling me silly stories from when he was little, and asking me questions about life in D.C. I was as honest as I could be, but I was painfully aware of everything I was leaving out. Later, I vowed, I would tell him everything.

"Okay," he said at last, turning onto a side street. "Close your eyes."

"What? Why?"

"Please … just humor me. I'll let you know when you can open them again." He turned the full effect of his eyes on me … and I caved—I couldn't help it.

"Fine," I said, somewhat grudgingly, shutting my own eyes—not the easiest thing to do for a hardened spy. "Have it your way."

"It won't be long. I promise."

True to his word—and well before my patience ran out—my weight shifted against the seatbelt as he took a right turn, and the car began to slow. "Don't look … but we're here."

I felt the car come to a stop. The motor turned off, and I heard the tick-tick-tick of the engine cooling. Chuck's door opened, then shut again. The next thing I knew, he'd opened my door and I felt the warmth of his hand in mine. "Okay," he said. "Do you trust me?"

"Absolutely," I said without a second thought, feeling the ache in my heart deepen. The other day, I'd asked him to trust _me._ Now he was returning the favor—but only one of us was worthy of that trust.

"This is gonna be so great." I could hear the smile in his voice. "Try and keep your eyes shut for just a little while longer. I'm going for maximum effect here. I promise, I won't let anything happen to you."

He tucked my arm through his as he led me through the parking lot—I could feel the rough surface of the asphalt under my heels—then into a place where I could hear the exuberant thrum of people milling around. He guided me a little further, one careful step at a time—and I felt the cool nip of fresh air on my face as he said, "Okay. You can look now."

I blinked … and my mouth fell open. We were standing in the midst of a winter wonderland. In front of me was an outdoor ice skating rink, festooned with stars and lanterns that hung suspended over the ice. Not ten feet away was a Christmas tree, all lit up for the season … and across the rink were screens featuring projected images of snowflakes. I breathed deeply, smelling hot chocolate and the citrusy scent of fir. Children and adults spun across the ice, some more graceful than others, laughing and holding on to each other for support. It was like someone had taken all of my childhood dreams of what holidays were supposed to be like and brought them to life.

"Chuck," I said, my voice cracking, "what made you think of this?"

He shrugged, a self-deprecating reflex. "I didn't want to do just any old thing with you. Dinner and a movie didn't quite cut it. I told you … I wanted this to be special. I'm a horrible skater, but this seemed like fun—something you'd enjoy—something you'll remember. If you hate it, we can go somewhere else—"

I couldn't help myself; I flung my arms around him. "How could I hate … this? It's perfect. Thank you."

He froze for an instant, and then his arms wrapped around me in return, holding me close. "You're welcome. A hug like this is worth all the bumps and bruises I'm sure I'll have after tonight."

I giggled, pulling away. "Where do we get our skates?"

True to his word, Chuck was a terrible skater. I'd ice skated a few times when I was a kid, and it came back to me easily enough—but Chuck kept falling, and eventually he had to hold onto me so he'd be able to stay upright without clinging to the side of the rink. He apologized profusely, but I didn't mind at all. It felt like something out of a rom-com, me in my little black dress and him in his shirt and tie, spinning across the ice. He was almost comically clumsy, and I wondered after a while if he was doing it on purpose, just to make me laugh.

"Okay," Chuck said on what must have been our fiftieth revolution around the rink, "I think I've got it now."

"Oh yeah? Does that mean you're ready to let go?"

"Not on your life," he said as he slid his arm behind my back, dipping me so far, my head almost touched the ice.

As I straightened up, my cheeks pink from laughter, I caught sight of a couple who must've been in their sixties skating by, eyeing us with nostalgia. They looked so happy together, and for an instant I let myself envision a future where Chuck and I grew old together and came back to this ice skating rink every year to celebrate the anniversary of our first date.

I came back to reality with a crash. All of this—the flowers, his thoughtfulness, this magical night—I didn't deserve it. I needed to tell him the truth, before we went any further.

"Chuck—" I began, but he was determinedly towing me toward the exit.

"That," he said, stumbling but managing not to drag us down onto the ice, "was my grand finale, in case you were wondering. There's no way I can top that, and besides, we've got somewhere else to be before our dinner reservations."

I looked at his face, lit with happiness, and couldn't bring myself to destroy our night—at least, not yet. "Somewhere better than this?" I teased, letting myself be towed. "Maybe you should quit while you're ahead."

"No way," he said, tightening his grip on my hand. "I'm done with that kind of thinking. Besides … tonight, we're celebrating—and the next place we're going is way more my wheelhouse."

OoOoOoOoO

We laughed and chatted until Chuck pulled onto Ocean Avenue, and the sight of the sun setting over the waves stunned me into silence. I glanced over at him in amazement, wondering if he'd timed our exit from the skating rink perfectly so that we'd get here just in time to see the sunset. Knowing what I did about Chuck, I wouldn't have been the least bit surprised.

The sun slipped below the horizon in a dazzling display of red and orange, and the moon rose in its stead. The stars shone through the sheer curtain of the night, dotting the sky. Bathed in brilliant moonlight, the ocean glistened like a quilt of molten silver, scattered with glinting sequins—a mirrored reflection of Earth and the heavens. I gasped, spellbound.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Chuck said, following the line of my gaze.

"Are … are we going swimming?" I said, finally finding my voice. I glanced down at my little black dress, not sure if I was prepared to make the sacrifice. If Chuck intended to get me out of my clothes, he needn't resort to such extreme measures.

He snorted in amusement, shaking his head. "Are you kidding? It's way too cold for that. No … tonight, Ms. Walker … we battle."

My eyebrows knitted in puzzlement as we pulled onto the ramp to the pier and drove beneath the archway. It read, in glowing letters, "Santa Monica: Yacht Harbor * Sport Fishing * Boating * Cafes." There was a small lot on the pier; Chuck got a ticket, found a spot, and extended his hand to help me out of the car.

Walking on a pier in stilettos wasn't the easiest thing I'd ever done, but I managed it, relishing the excuse to once more tuck my hand through Chuck's arm. The ocean breeze blew my hair back from my face, redolent of salt and summer days with my family before everything went to hell. Chuck had left his blazer in the car, and his arm was warm through the cotton of his button-down. This moment was perfect. I wanted to remember it forever … just like Chuck had planned.

He came to a halt, bringing me with him, and I looked up to see a marquee that read, "PLAYLAND ARCADE: SKEEBALL & PRIZES." The light dawned: So that's what he'd meant by 'battle.' I'd never been to an arcade before, but Chuck had been such a good sport at the ice skating rink, I felt like I needed to return the favor.

"Ready?" he said, sounding as excited as a little kid.

"Whenever you are."

We passed beneath the marquee and into the arcade. It was filled with pinball machines, skeeball, air hockey tables, old-fashioned games like Pac-Man, and a ton of other stuff. The place was huge, and smelled of popcorn and adrenaline.

"What do you want to do first?" Chuck said, bouncing on his heels.

I had no idea. "Um … you choose."

"How about WARZAID?" he suggested, gesturing at a game a few feet away. "It doesn't have controls, so it'll be a fair fight. I usually play more technical stuff, but this one and a couple others are more based on reaction time than anything else."

I peered more closely at the game he was pointing at. Were those … guns?

Oh, yes, they most certainly were. My competitive streak reared its nasty head … the same one that had made me first in my class at the Farm. I was going to _smoke _Chuck at this game.

"It's a first-person shooter," he said, mistaking my anticipation for hesitation. "Is that a problem … are you anti-gun?"

I almost choked on my laughter, but managed to rein it in ... somewhat. The sound that came out of my mouth was somewhere between a cough and a bark, and—understandably—Chuck shot me a disturbed look. "You all right?" he said.

"Yes … sorry. Fine." I pulled myself together. "I'm not anti-gun. Anti-lack of gun control, yes. Anti-gun, no. How do you play?"

The game was weird, but fun. Chuck and I were on the same team, shooting at what I first thought were soldiers in full military gear, but actually turned out to be zombies. Once I got a sense of how to handle the gun, I had a blast … no pun intended. It was easy to figure out how to take cover, aim, and annihilate our enemies. I braced myself in my stilettos like I had on dozens of missions, grateful for the light material of my dress, and took out one zombie after another.

I was having such a great time, I forgot about the fact that Chuck was next to me until the last zombie fell dead and he gave a low whistle through his teeth. "Damn, girl," he said, looking impressed as I lowered the gun. "I thought I was decent at WARZAID, but you totally put me to shame. Have you played this before?"

I shook my head. "Nope. Never been much for video games, but this one was awesome. What next?"

He scanned the room, filled with lit-up consoles and kids cheering each other on. There was even a platform where two little girls were dancing in step, trying to match the pattern projected on a screen. They were having such a good time, I couldn't help but smile.

Chuck's gaze settled on the center of the room. "How about a racing game?"

Could this night get any better? "Sure. Sounds like fun. I like driving fast cars."

This time we played against each other, and Chuck didn't stand a chance. I spun the steering wheel left and right, whipping my car around the track, gunning the engine and taking hairpin turns. My Ferrari screeched through the finish line while his Lamborghini was still rounding the last curve.

In the silence that followed, Chuck stared at me, his mouth open. "How … how did you learn to drive like that?"

"I told you," I said, unable to repress a grin. "I like fast cars."

"Just when I thought you couldn't get any more incredible …" He shook his head. "I thought I was the one who'd be surprising you tonight, but this—you're awesome, Sarah. You couldn't be any more amazing if I'd special-ordered you myself."

I regarded him, half-pleased, half-surprised, and he blushed bright red. "That sounded horrible, didn't it? I didn't mean that you were some kind of commodity, or that you exist for my gratification, or—the hell with it. I'm just going to shut up now."

As I watched him shuffle his feet in embarrassment, I couldn't help be struck by how different he was from the alpha males I'd spent time with at the Farm. Those guys would've been pissed off beyond belief about the fact that I'd beaten their performance. They would've blamed my success on faulty equipment, demanded a rematch—but Chuck just looked proud.

Giving in to a sudden impulse, I leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. "Do we have time to play something else?"

I loved the way every time I kissed him, it seemed to knock his brain off track for a good thirty seconds. Finally, his eyes cleared and he said, his voice hoarse, "Air hockey?"

So we played. Air hockey, at least, was something I'd done before. I'd always had good reflexes, and my years at the Farm had honed them further. I scored goals again and again, driving them past Chuck's defenses, winking at him to ease the sting.

"Please tell me you've played _this _before," Chuck said as he bent down to retrieve the puck yet again. "Or are you just some kind of air hockey savant?"

"I've played it before," I admitted, and he drew an exaggerated breath of relief as he dropped the puck back onto the table and sent it skating my way.

It was time to put him out of his misery. The score was 6-1 … one more point and the game would be mine.

"You know what?" I said, my eyes fixed on Chuck's. "I'm hungry."

Without taking my eyes off his face, I sent the puck across the table with dangerous precision. It slammed home, and the digital scoreboard flipped to 7-1.

"Game over," I said cheerily. "Dinner?"

OoOoOoOoO

Dinner, as it turned out, was at a restaurant called Sushi Roku. "I hope you like sushi," Chuck said shyly as we walked up to the front door, "because if not … well, too late."

"I love sushi," I assured him. "And after kicking your butt at air hockey, I'm starving."

The restaurant was elegant, with high ceilings, interior columns, and tall windows that let in the dimming light. The hostess seated us at a two-top by the one of the windows, and Chuck pulled my chair out for me with a flourish.

We ordered drinks—Sapporo for him, and a Coco Blossom for me: Absolut vodka, mixed with coconut, orange blossom, lime juice, and mint. It tasted delicious … like summer in a glass. I eyed Chuck over the rim, feeling so lucky to be here, in this place, with this man.

Even if I was going to have to break his heart—and mine.

But not yet.

I did my best to put the conversation that we were going to have to have out of my mind. "How do you feel about bacon-wrapped scallops as an appetizer?" I asked Chuck instead, scanning the menu.

"Is there more than one way to feel about bacon-wrapped anything?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

"Not in my opinion." I took a sip of my drink. "How about … hmmm … miso-glazed popcorn shrimp tempura?"

In the end, we got the scallops and the shrimp, plus an eel avocado roll, an assortment of sushi, and a baked lobster roll with miso hollandaise sauce. The food was delicious, but as our meal went on, I was having trouble swallowing. Every moment brought me closer to the confession I dreaded.

I felt like two versions of myself. The first, Surface Sarah, smiled at Chuck, snuck bites off his plate with her chopsticks, and asked him questions about his life. The second, Subterranean Sarah, had a single loop running on repeat in her head: _Please don't hate me, please understand, please forgive me, please don't make me lose you. _If it hadn't been for my years at the Farm, which had trained me all too well to operate with a hidden agenda, I would have knocked back the rest of my drink and fled from the table long ago.

_After dinner, I'll tell him_, I bargained with myself. _Just a few more minutes.  
_

We finished our food and ordered coffee. I could feel my heart beating faster and faster as Chuck told me about wanting to start his own cybersecurity company. "Now that I finally have my degree and the money to do it, nothing's standing in my way," he said as the waitress set our coffees down on the table. "But anyhow, enough about me. I've done nothing but talk about myself all night. You must be so bored."

My lips felt numb. "I'm not. But I do have something to tell you." Taking his hand in mine, I readied myself for the worst. "Chuck, when I met you, I wasn't really—"

A high, all-too-familiar, indignant voice interrupted my confession. "You have _got _to be kidding me."

Oh, no. Surely not. My luck couldn't be that bad.

But yes. Yes, it was. Stalking toward our table in a dress that could have done double-duty as a napkin and a hairdo which required so much spray it was likely a fire hazard was none other than Tiffany, Bryce's flavor-of-the-night.

I was so screwed.

* * *

A/N: We'd love to hear your thoughts. How do you feel about the direction we're taking with this story? And how many of you would like to order a Coco Blossom when you're done with social distancing? We know we would, especially after the great news Emily got today.

We're posting this in celebration and as a thank-you to this group for being so supportive. Emily is such a trouper that she even edited this chapter post-surgery. Also, she wrote the majority of it. It'll make her surgery recovery so much more fun if you let us know what you think!

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way. They really do make this all worthwhile.


	7. Purgatory

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't I proven herself? But when I arrives in Graham's office, I discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything I thought I knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 7:** **Purgatory  
**

As I watched Tiffany weave her way through the crowd, an invisible hand clasped over my mouth and an equally ghostly hypodermic of adrenaline pierced my heart, unloading in an instant. I felt my ribs heaving as if bound by ropes, straining to inflate my lungs. My head was a carousel of fears spinning out of control, each one pushing my mind further and further into blackness. I wanted to run away, but my limbs felt bound as well, and the hangman—currently making her way toward us—held a tight grip on the proverbial loose handle, ready to spring the trap door that lay beneath my feet.

When Tiffany finally arrived at our table, she planted her hands on her hips. Her glare sliced like razor blades as she looked me up and down with pure contempt. I could practically see the flames licking up in her eyes, ready to ignite anything they came in contact with.

Much as I wished she was anywhere but here, I couldn't blame her for her reaction at seeing me and Chuck in this intimate setting. She had every right to be angry with me, after I'd _just_ torn into her to make a point and teach Bryce a lesson—another ridiculous deception that was now coming full circle.

My mouth went dry as her focus shifted to Chuck, who just sat there, frozen, like a marionette whose strings had been severed. Then her eyes locked back on mine, her mouth opened, and pure venom spewed out. "You've got some nerve, you know that?" she spat, "—giving me a bunch of shit … calling me a _hussy_ for sleeping with your husband when I had _no_ _idea_ that Bryce was married. But here you are—the hypocrite-hussy-extraordinaire—out on a date and holding hands with another man! Don't even try and deny it. I saw the way you were looking at tall, dark, and curly here. What is this?—some kind of sadistic payback?"

Chuck yanked his hand out of mine like I'd burned him. "Wait. You're married?"

"No," I said, glaring daggers back at Tiffany. "I'm not."

"Yes, you are! You're a liar and a cheat." She tossed her hair, which would've been more effective if it had actually moved. "I don't care if Curls here _is_ really cute. He deserves better than this—better than _you_. He deserves to know the truth … just like I did. I can't believe you had me feeling bad about wrecking your marriage—but it looks like you're doing a great job of that … All. By. Yourself."

"Hold on. Hold on. Hold on," Chuck said, putting a palm out in front of him as if to derail the freight train that was Tiffany. "Did you just say 'Bryce'? As in, Bryce Larkin … from Connecticut?"

"Not sure where he was from," she said. "I'm ashamed to admit it, but I never got his last name. We didn't really … talk … all that much. Dark hair, blue eyes, rugged good looks—almost as cute as you."

"That's not a very common name, Sarah," Chuck said as he turned to me, disillusionment clear in every line of his face. "Please tell me she's not talking about the same Bryce who got me kicked out of Stanford. The guy who stole my fiancée and destroyed my life?"

I couldn't lie to him—not after my epiphany. "Yes, Chuck … that's who she means, but Bryce and I aren't married. Far from it."

Tiffany snorted. "Then why did you turn up at his apartment the morning after Thanksgiving and tell me you were his wife?"

Chuck set his coffee cup on the table with a clink. "The morning after Thanksgiving? After you and I—after we—"

"Chuck," I said, desperation filling my voice, "I can explain. It's not what you think, I promise. I was starting to tell you, when she came up to our table."

Tiffany crossed her arms, shaking her head. "Don't listen to her, _Chuck._ She's so full of shit right now. Of course she'd say that after getting caught. She's just using you to get back at her husband."

His face crumpled. "I knew this was too good to be true."

"Please, Chuck. If you would just listen—"

He got to his feet, pushing his chair back from the table. "I can't believe you would do this to me, Sarah—after everything I shared with you—after everything we shared with each other. No—you know what? Actually … I can believe it. You'd think I'd be used to it by now. As soon as a little good luck falls my way, something always comes along to knock me on my ass and put me back in my place. What I can't believe is that I was stupid enough to think someone like you would ever want to be with someone like me. I'm such an idiot."

"No, Chuck." Tears stung my eyes. "Don't say that."

He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and threw some cash on the table along with his car keys. "That should be enough for dinner. I'll just take a cab or something. I'm sorry … but I can't do this right now."

"Come on, Chuck," Tiffany said, smirking at me as Chuck slipped on his blazer. "I can give you a lift."

Before I could say another word, they both turned and fled, heading for the door—straight through a group of thirty-something patrons who scattered like a flock of startled birds. I sat, my eyes glossy with tears, watching the best thing that had ever happened to me walk away … with another woman.

OoOoOoOoO

I drove Chuck's car back to Echo Park in total silence, sunk deep in misery. Just thirty minutes before, I'd been ecstatic, thrilled to be spending time with Chuck and reveling in the experience of my first-ever date … with a guy who'd clearly put a lot of thought into making the evening as special as it could possibly be. Being with him had felt so natural, as if I'd finally found the place where I belonged. I'd forgotten to be nervous, forgotten how worried I'd been that I wouldn't know how to act—even allowed myself to forget, if only for a few precious minutes, that I had to tell him the truth about who I really was and why I'd come to Burbank. For a little while, I'd just been a girl on a date with the amazing guy I'd fallen for. And even when I'd known it was time to tell him everything, I'd still hoped he'd understand.

Of course, that had been before Tiffany had swooped down upon our table like a vindictive bird of prey, scooping up Chuck in her manicured talons and flying right out the door.

I couldn't blame Tiffany—but God, the woman's timing couldn't have been worse. Another ninety seconds, and I would've at least told Chuck the basics. As it was, I'd had to sit there, helpless, as the warmth drained from Chuck's face and his eyes clouded with disappointment. The devastation in his voice … the self-incrimination … all of it was my fault. And to make matters worse … instead of cursing me out or calling me names, he'd floored me with his restraint. He'd even left me his car keys, so I could be sure to get home safely … even after he believed I'd betrayed him.

I didn't blame Chuck either, for believing the worst of me. He'd only just met me, after all. I just hoped he would eventually give me the chance to explain the situation and try to make things right.

My eyes blurred with tears, so it was hard to see the road. The red light in front of me shimmered, distorted, and I slammed hard on the brakes. All I needed was to wreck Chuck's rental car on top of everything else.

Stuck at the light, I smacked the steering wheel hard in frustration, accidentally hitting the horn and drawing the attention of two teenage guys who were making their way across the street. One of them peered closer at me, and elbowed his friend. "Hey, gorgeous," he called over to me. "Smile!"

If there was one thing I hated, it was being told to smile by a random guy—especially someone who was barely out of puberty. I couldn't help but compare the kid's behavior to Chuck's. He'd been such a gentleman, opening my car door for me and paying me compliments that didn't make me feel gross and dirty, like I needed to peel off my skin and sanitize it before stepping back in.

Guys had commented on my looks ever since my makeover—usually in a way that felt like it was much more about their own gratification than mine. Chuck was the first one who'd made me feel seen rather than objectified, cherished rather than drooled over. Without him, the world felt drained of color—back to the sepia shades that had defined my existence before I saw Chuck's picture in his dossier. The problem was, before, I had no idea what I'd been missing. Now I knew, and it hurt to think of having to go back to that existence.

The light changed and the boys made it safely to the other side of the street. Dashing away my tears with the palm of my hand, I pulled back out into traffic. I wanted to get home before Chuck did, so I could intercept him before he got into his apartment … but what if he wasn't going home? What if he and Tiffany were in some hipster wine bar right now, sipping Shiraz and bonding over their shared disgust with me? I could just see that bimbo looking deep into Chuck's eyes, placing a hand on his arm in support, and then …

When I thought about what might come next, the image went dark. I couldn't stand to picture it.

The car felt suddenly claustrophobic, and I rolled down the window, taking a deep breath. The scent of frying meat from the taco stand on the corner filled my lungs, nauseating me. What if I couldn't fix this? What if Chuck never wanted to talk to me again?

I would lose him. And I would have to crawl back to Langley with my tail between my legs … if Graham would even take me back after this.

My job. My pride. And Chuck. I stood to lose everything … even my faith in myself.

I stomped on the gas so hard, I heard a creaking sound as the heel of my stiletto threatened to crack. My seatbelt was snug across my chest, pinning me—but I welcomed the sensation. Right now, it felt like that belt was all that was holding me together … as if without it, I would scatter into a thousand trembling molecules of mercury: Volatile, amorphous, and poisonous to everyone I encountered.

Merging onto the 405, I passed one car after another, pushing the Accord to its limits. The roar of the engine echoed the scream I felt bubbling up in my chest. After a second, I let it loose. My howl filled the car, my desolation and rage shaking the windows and sinking deep into the upholstery, surrounding me on all sides—as if I'd crawled into the belly of the beast. Except in this case, the beast was me, and there was no escape.

Why had I waited? Why hadn't I told him the whole truth when I had the chance?

I knew why, of course. I hadn't wanted to wreck things—our ice skating and arcade adventures, our romantic dinner. It was ironic—and so, so stupid.

The exit for the I-5—the road that would take me to Burbank—was just a mile away. Pressing hard on the gas, I eased the Accord into a tiny space between a Jeep and a Camry, then checked my mirrors and shot across another lane. At least I had control over the car. Right now, it felt like the _only _thing I could control.

Maybe this was what happened when you loved someone—or deeply cared about them. It was too early to say I loved Chuck … wasn't it? How could you love someone you'd just met a few days ago? However I chose to label what I felt for him, I knew one thing for sure—it made me vulnerable, prone to thinking with my heart rather than my head. Prone to taking stupid risks. This wasn't _me_—the seasoned agent who plotted all of my actions five steps ahead, who always had a cool, calculated game plan and emotional detachment to match. I felt like a stranger occupying a Sarah Walker-shaped body.

Gripping the steering wheel, I forced myself to think. Who did Chuck love and trust? The answer to that one was easy: his sister, of course. Picturing how Ellie would react to my betrayal made my stomach clench … but if I was able to get Ellie to understand, then perhaps Chuck would, too.

Merging onto the I-5 with renewed determination, I began to rehearse what I would say. But no matter what I came up with, the bottom line was simple: I would utter whatever words I had to if it would bring that beautiful smile back to Chuck's face and the light back to his eyes. The thought of the mental oubliette he'd plummeted into was too much for me to bear. My pain merged with what I knew he must be feeling, tangling together until it hurt for me to breathe. I would do anything, say anything to make it stop … to make him happy again.

Even if it meant losing him forever.

OoOoOoOoO

When I got back to Echo Park—even though I knew it was a violation of his privacy—I couldn't resist checking the surveillance feeds, vowing to myself that it would be the last time I'd ever do such a thing. I clicked through each one. To my utter relief … and disappointment … Chuck wasn't home. Only Ellie, who was involved in the scintillating task of cleaning out the refrigerator. God, the woman was a neat freak. By the time she was done, Devon could've used the fridge to perform open heart surgery.

Restless, I kicked off my stilettos and changed from my dress into a t-shirt, jeans, and some ankle boots. I dumped the dress in the laundry basket and started pacing the room. I even ran cold water over my wrists, which I remembered my grandmother saying was a surefire way to calm down in a pinch.

Newsflash, Grandma: It didn't work.

Two minutes later, I was back in front of my computer, clicking through the feeds once again, just in case Chuck had showed up while I was freaking out. He still hadn't, so I pulled up the camera at the entrance to Echo Park—again. It was pointless, given that the system was set up to alert me through my watch when anyone entered or left the complex, but I had to do _something.  
_

This damn watch… It was an awesome piece of technology, but right now it felt more like a handcuff than anything else. I wanted to rip it off my wrist and hurl it at the wall. Instead, I paced the bedroom, running my hands through my hair, muttering to myself. I felt like a coil that had been wound too tight, ready to spring loose at the slightest provocation.

An eternity—or perhaps a half-hour—later, the camera revealed what looked like a brand-new black BMW that pulled up to the curb and sat there idling. I zoomed in and saw Chuck and Tiffany … talking. And then talking some more. What the hell did they have to say to each other that hadn't already been said? I felt my muscles tense as I watched. Were they affirming all that they had in common … expressing gratitude that they'd found each other … making plans to see each other again?

Fighting back a rising wave of jealousy, I zoomed closer still. Both of Tiffany's hands were on the wheel, her candy-apple-red-polished nails poised perfectly at ten and two. As for Chuck, he didn't look like a man in the throes of newly-discovered passion. His face wore the same somber look he'd had when he left the restaurant.

Feeling like the worst kind of voyeur, I sat there watching for another five minutes. Finally Chuck got out of the car and headed for Echo Park's gate. He'd only gone a couple steps before the passenger-side window of the BMW scrolled down and Tiffany leaned over, presumably calling to him. When he came back, she handed him a piece of paper—her phone number, if I had to guess—which he tucked in his pocket without examining. Waving goodbye to her, he turned and headed for home once more.

_If I've ever had an ounce of courage, let me show it now. _I drew a deep breath and stepped out of my front door just as Chuck walked into the courtyard.

His head jerked up, his eyes widening in surprise. "Sarah," he said, and he didn't sound angry—just hurt and resigned. "You could've given me my keys later. I told you, I'm not ready to talk right now."

How was it that executing top-secret missions—some of which had involved infiltrating the inner circles of the Russian mob and others which had entailed jumping out of honest-to-God airplanes—was easier than facing Chuck in this moment? I cleared my throat, knowing there was no going back after this. "This isn't about your keys, Chuck—although here they are." I tossed them at him, and his hand came up in reflex to pluck them from the air. "Can you please get Ellie and come over to my apartment? I have something very important to tell you both."

"Seriously?" He clenched his fist around the keys. Even from where I stood, I could see that his knuckles were white.

"Please, Chuck. If you don't want anything to do with me after you've heard what I have to say, I'll totally understand. But at least hear me out. If nothing else, to protect you and your sister."

His eyebrows lowered. "Protect us? From what? You're not making any sense."

"I know. And I know you have no reason to trust me." That one stung. "But this once—can you please do what I ask?"

He shook his head, looking beleaguered.

"Please," I said again, not caring how desperate I sounded. "Chuck, please."

Taking a few steps back, he folded his arms across his chest. "Fine. I'll be right back. Hold on."

I waited outside, my heart pounding, until he reemerged with Ellie right next to him. She looked confused; Chuck just looked apprehensive. I wondered what he'd told her during the brief moments he'd been inside. Surely that wasn't enough time to explain the whole Tiffany-and-fake-marriage debacle. If it was, Ellie's expression would be murderous rather than bewildered.

"Sarah?" Ellie said, looking me over. "What's wrong?"

"Not here," I said tersely, a false smile pasted on my face for the benefit of the cameras.

They followed me into my apartment, where I gestured for them to sit on the couch and then stood in front of them, wondering how to begin. Finally I decided to just start with the truth.

"I lied to you, Ellie," I said, looking her dead in the eye.

She tilted her head to the side in puzzlement and stayed that way, like a robot that had been given a command that didn't quite compute. "Lied? How?"

"I didn't move out here to start over after escaping an abusive ex-boyfriend. My estranged mother's not dead, at least as far as I know. And my father didn't abandon me, either. He's in jail after conning the wrong people and getting caught."

Ellie reanimated herself, scooting forward to the edge of the couch. "But—"

"I'm an agent with the CIA," I said in a rush. Better to get it out and get it over with. "I was sent here to get close to both of you."

Now they were both looking at me like I was crazy. Chuck ran his hand through his hair, leaving it a rumpled mess. "Wait … what?"

I sounded like a paranoid lunatic who'd spent the past thirty minutes comparison-shopping for the most effective tinfoil hat on the market. Well, there was nothing to be done about that. In this case, truth was definitely stranger than fiction … and I was so tired of all the lies.

"I promise I'll get to that, Chuck," I said, bracing myself. "As hard as this is for me, I want—no … I _need_ to tell you both some things I've never told anyone. Not even the CIA knows everything I'm about to say."

They sat, silently, staring up at me as I began to speak. "I told you I was from DC. In a sense, that was the truth—I flew here from DC, and the CIA's Langley office is located in Virginia, just outside the Capitol. But I've only lived on the East Coast since I was 17. I was born in San Diego."

Ellie swallowed hard. "What? Why would you lie about that?"

"I'm a professional liar, Ellie. It's what I'm trained to do. But I promise I'm not lying now. If I was, I'd be a lot more comfortable having this conversation." I pulled a chair over and sank into it, thinking I'd seem less intimidating if I wasn't looming over them. "If you don't mind, I'd like to start at the beginning. I think my story will make more sense that way."

The Bartowski siblings folded their arms across their chests in eerie synchrony and just looked at me. Nervously, I cleared my throat and began.

"I didn't have a great childhood. My parents argued constantly, usually about my dad's incessant scheming, what a bad influence on me he was, how he spent all of our money. My mom was mad at him all the time." I have to repress a shudder at the memory: Lying in bed, trying to sleep as my parents' voices rose and fell in their room down the hall, spiky with rage and punctuated with slamming doors. "Back then," I say, shoving the memory away, "I thought my dad was the coolest. He was the fun parent. My mom was always laying down rules, telling me what to eat, what I could watch on TV, where I could go, that kind of thing."

Sitting up straight, I launched into the rest of the story. Might as well get it over with as quickly as I could. "They split up, and asked me to choose between them. I was only seven. I chose the parent who gave me chocolate cake for breakfast and promised me adventures. It destroyed my mom and wrecked our relationship—but as far as I know, she is very much alive."

"You lied about your _dead mom_?" Chuck's voice rose and cracked on the last two words.

"Well, technically, my _un_dead mom. But yeah." I couldn't look him in the eye. "My dad promised me adventures, but what he gave me instead was a life on the run. He was a grifter. We went from town to town, constantly changing names to avoid the authorities, never putting down roots or forming attachments. Pretty soon, I was helping my dad with his cons." These memories were even worse: an eight-year-old girl deliberately riding her bike into the street in the path of a car to collect the insurance payout; a ten-year-old distracting a senior citizen coming out of a bank so my dad could snake his cash. "At first, I didn't understand how wrong it was. It seemed like a game. But later, even after I understood the way it affected the people we conned, how it caused them real hardship, I didn't stop. I was good at it—and I wanted my dad's approval more than anything. He was proudest of me when I learned the tricks of his trade … and I mistook that pride for love."

When I glanced at Ellie's face, the pity I saw there almost undid me. "That's horrible," she said, her voice soft.

"He got caught eventually," I told them. "A con went sideways and he came to the CIA's attention. Turns out, they'd been watching him … and me. I tried to run away, but the deputy director—he's the director now—caught me. He promised to protect my father from people who would harm him and to keep me out of juvie if I joined the CIA. I was seventeen. I agreed."

"You joined the CIA when you were seventeen? Is that even legal?" Chuck didn't look hurt anymore. Now he just looked shocked—and sorry for me. I wasn't sure which was worse.

"No," I admitted, "but I didn't know that then. I felt trapped … because I was. My father went to jail, and I went to the Farm—where CIA agents receive their training. I worked hard, and I became … not to brag … one of the most successful agents the CIA has ever had. I graduated at the top of my class and got assigned to an all-female squad. For a while, things were great—exciting, like the adventure my dad had promised me. But then, one of my teammates … one of the only friends I'd ever had … betrayed me. The team was disbanded after that, and I came back to Langley. Less than a week ago, I was reassigned to this mission and given my first partner … Bryce Larkin."

Ellie shot backwards so quickly, the couch smacked into the wall. "What?" she said, just as Chuck said, "So you just met Bryce? You're not married?"

"Married?" Ellie said, her eyebrows nearly meeting her hairline. "Chuck, what are you talking about?"

"There was a misunderstanding," I told Ellie. "Chuck, I did see Tiffany at Bryce's apartment, but it wasn't what you think. I was there to go over the mission parameters, and he'd gotten on my nerves the day before because he kept hitting on me. When I saw her coming out of his apartment, I decided to mess with him and act like I'd caught him cheating. It was just to teach him a lesson … I'd warned him about keeping a low profile, and here he was, having a fling the very first night we were in town. If I'd ever suspected it would backfire the way it did, I would've kept my mouth shut. The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you."

Chuck's mouth opened, then closed again. Finally he said, "So, to be clear—you've never been with Bryce?"

I squared my shoulders. "I've never _been _with anyone. Not the way you mean. And definitely not Bryce."

A series of emotions rippled over Chuck's face—disbelief, relief, and … finally … happiness. "Then what happened between us—"

I couldn't reassure him quickly enough. "Everything between you and me—it was real. That's the whole reason I'm sitting in front of you, having this conversation. I told the director how I felt about you, and he was going to reassign me—so I threatened to quit. I'd rather leave the career I've been building since I was a teenager than give up on the possibility of being with you … of having something real. And I made it clear that if I stayed, it was contingent on having Bryce reassigned as my partner. I couldn't continue working with him after what he did to you."

I could see Chuck's chest move as he took a deep breath—but all he said was, "You said 'reassigned to this mission.' What mission? And what does Bryce have to do with all of this? Don't tell me he's a CIA agent too."

"Oh, he is definitely a CIA agent," I said grimly. "An obnoxious, inappropriate one—but an agent just the same. Everything that happened with Professor Fleming and Stanford—it's all connected. Fleming wanted to recruit you into the CIA based on the score you'd gotten on a test they'd administered … but someone intervened on your behalf, and Bryce shut it down. That's why he framed you and got you kicked out of Stanford … to protect you. Or so he claims."

Chuck's hands clenched the fabric of the couch so tightly, I heard it give under the strain. "Someone intervened? Who? And why?"

If the rest of the story had been difficult to tell them, this was the worst part. "Your father," I said, and heard both Bartowskis suck in a sharp breath.

Ellie spoke first. "What are you talking about?"

"He's in hiding, Ellie. He goes by the code name Orion—and he's the only person alive with any hope of completing a highly classified project with national security implications."

"I can't believe this." Chuck shot to his feet, pacing the length of my living room. "How is any of this possible?"

Ellie didn't move, but every line of her body sang with tension. "Tell us everything you know," she said, her voice as rigid as her posture.

It was my turn to take a deep breath. "If you had any doubt as to whether I'm telling you the truth, or how much the two of you have already come to matter to me … all I can say is, I'm putting my life in your hands. If you want to make sure I never see the light of day again, all you'll have to do is let someone in the government know what I'm about to tell you."

Chuck froze in place, staring at me. "What are you saying? They'd kill you? Lock you up somewhere? It's that serious?"

I hated that he'd been dragged into this world—_my _world—but as long as he was here, it was my responsibility to make him understand. "Let me tell you about the Omaha Project," I said, and told them everything I knew.

When I was finished, Chuck looked even more disbelieving than he had when I'd confessed I'd never been with Bryce—with any guy—before. "That's not possible," he said. "It sounds like something out of one of my graphic novels."

"Actually," Ellie said slowly, "it just might be. I've read papers that allude to the possibility—and I found some notes of Dad's in storage that suggest he was looking into building some type of 'learning computer.' I thought it was just in the planning stage … but maybe he accomplished more than we ever imagined."

"But we haven't seen Dad in a decade," Chuck said. "Even if all of this is true, what could you possibly want from us?"

This part was tricky. "Originally, the CIA wanted me to gather any information that might help us locate Orion and coax him out of hiding. I don't want to do anything behind your back or that would make you feel uncomfortable. Personally, I don't care if you cooperate at all. I just wanted to tell you the truth—and have a chance to start over … if you'll give it to me."

Ellie got to her feet, walking over to put an arm around her brother. "We need some time to think. This is a lot to drop on us out of the blue … and you already admitted you're a professional liar. Maybe you are telling the truth now—but we let you into our home … hell, around our Thanksgiving table … under false pretenses. I'm sure you'll understand that we need some time and space."

"I do understand," I said, because what else was there to say? "Thank you for hearing me out."

Without another word, she tugged Chuck toward the door and opened it. Right before they stepped outside, he looked back at me, his expression wistful … almost as if he wished he could stay. But he didn't resist. He let Ellie pull him out the door.

It closed behind them with a click that sounded as final as anything I'd ever heard, and I buried my face in my hands. I'd done the right thing … I knew I had. But I still felt awful.

What if I'd told the truth, and lost him anyhow? What would I do then?

I had to believe things would work out somehow. But believing that required something I'd never had much of.

Faith.

OoOoOoOoO

The rest of the evening dragged interminably. I cleaned my already-spotless apartment, caught up on paperwork, and did everything I could to pass the time. Finally I ate some Ben & Jerry's and crawled into bed, feeling miserable. Sleep eluded me. I lay flat on my back, watching the ceiling fan revolve. It went in a pointless circle, just like the hamster wheel of my thoughts: _Will he forgive me? _Should_ he? What will I do if he doesn't? _Tears slipped down my face, and I didn't bother to wipe them away.

Then I heard a soft knock on the door.

Hope flared in my chest, a faint, flickering flame. I grabbed my gun from under my pillow and went to see who it was. If Bryce Larkin was at my door, I was going to shoot first and ask questions later.

But when I looked through the peephole, Bryce wasn't on the other side. Instead Chuck stood there, shifting from foot to foot in his Converse sneakers, his hands deep in his pockets.

My heart started to pound triple-time. I shoved the gun into the back of my waistband and ran a hasty hand over my hair, trying in vain to smooth it. I was sure I looked awful—tear-stained face, messed-up hair, rumpled clothes. It didn't matter; at least it was honest. I wrenched the door open and stood, gaping at him.

He gave me a hesitant smile. "So," he said, before I could speak, "I thought about what you said. About starting over. And I had an idea."

I was far from an expert when it came to relationship conversations, but this didn't sound like he was telling me he never wanted to speak to me again. The spark of hope flared brighter. "Yes?" I said, my voice hoarse from tears and disuse.

His smile widened. "Hi," he said, extending one hand to take mine. "I'm Charles Irving Bartowski. My friends call me Chuck."

It was more than I could have dreamed of—he was wiping the slate clean, taking us back to the very beginning. I felt my lips rise in a smile that echoed his own.

I owed him the truth. I would give him everything.

"Hi," I said, and took his hand. It enfolded mine, warm and confident and sure. "My name is Samana Elisabeth Wozniak. But my friends call me Sarah."

* * *

A/N: This has been a challenging week for everyone—and especially challenging (but also wonderful) for us as Emily recovers from her successful surgery. We are so relieved her pathology results were excellent but of course also concerned for our extended network of friends and family as the world confronts the wreckage of COVID-19. We're sorry that we weren't able to reach out to you individually to thank you for your reviews on our past chapter as we normally do … we'll resume that practice this time around! Hopefully this chapter will entertain, uplift and distract you during these unprecedented times.

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	8. Tabula Rasa

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 8:** **Tabula Rasa****  
**

When I finally woke up the next morning, I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't still immersed in a freakish dream state. I'd tossed and turned all night, my subconscious populated by a rotating, bizarre cast of characters: Ellie catapulting roasted turkeys at my head, barbed stuffing spraying everywhere like a hail of doughy javelins; Chuck winning me a Styrofoam gun—equipped with lacy ankle holster—from the Playland arcade and challenging me to a quick-draw competition; Graham sitting cross-legged on his desk, shaking a giant Magic 8-Ball, telling me to ask him anything.

_Did last night really happen? _"As I see it, yes."

_Has Chuck really forgiven me? _"It is decidedly so."

_Can I really have a normal life … complete with a best friend who accepts me for who I am, and an amazing guy who loves me for the same reasons? _"Better not tell you now."

I hadn't slept so fitfully since I was five years old, trying to catch Santa coming down the chimney on Christmas Eve. I could remember the exact sensation—wanting so desperately to catch a glimpse of him, but afraid that if I did, it would destroy the magic, that nothing could possibly live up to so much hype. That was how I felt now … anticipating the dawn but terrified that somehow I'd wake up to find I'd invented everything … that Chuck was too good to be true.

I'd jolted awake between each dream, glancing out the window to see if it was morning yet—the first day of my new life. But no … each time, the sky had been dark as the heart of a crow's eye, the unrelenting blackness broken only by the warm yellow glow of the courtyard lamps. I'd sunk back into an uneasy sleep, finally surfacing to see the lamplight fading, eclipsed by the light of the rising sun.

I sat up, my back against the headboard, feeling happier than I could remember being in a long, long time. Maybe ever. A chorus of birds broke the drone of the early-morning-city traffic, greeting the sunrise with as much optimism as I felt. I knew it was too early to be up, but I couldn't contain my excitement and the echo-effect that rolled through my memories of last night.

Yes, Chuck had actually forgiven me. More than that, he'd given me—given _us_—a chance to start over. Joy filled my entire body, trickling through every vein, warming me like fine wine as I rolled over and hugged my spare pillow to my chest, remembering.

"Your name's … Samana?" he'd said, a hint of disbelief in his voice. "Not Samantha—did I hear that right?"

"You did," I'd assured him, making a futile effort to smooth my disheveled hair. "But I haven't used that name since I was a little girl—before my dad and I hit the road and everything went to hell."

"Well, that aside … it's beautiful." He'd shifted his weight bashfully. "And unique. Which is fitting, considering who it belongs to."

I could feel a blush heating my face as I looked up at him through my lashes. "Thank you."

He just stared down at me … waiting—for what, I had no idea. But telling the truth had worked out well for me so far, so I decided to stick with it.

"Even the CIA doesn't know my real name, Chuck," I said, daring to take his hand in mine. "I told you because I think you deserve to know everything about me, if you're ever going to be able to trust me again. My legal name really is Sarah Walker, though. The CIA made that official as soon as I joined. Would it … would it be okay with you, if you kept calling me that? It's the only identity I've ever known as an adult and it's … something real … at least to me."

"I'll call you whatever you like." He squeezed my hand. "But I'm no fool, Sarah … contrary to popular belief. And it means a lot that you were willing to share your birth name with me … especially since you've never told anyone else."

I smiled at him and we stood in silence, holding hands, breathing in the wine-grape scent of the Catalina Perfume plants that edged the courtyard. After a moment Chuck said, "Sarah—did you really threaten to quit if you were reassigned?"

"Of course." My response was instinctive—but I knew Chuck deserved more of an explanation. "My whole life," I said, searching for the right words, "I've felt alone. Isolated. When I was little, my parents fought so much that I never wanted to invite anyone over. And later—I knew the cons I pulled with my dad were wrong, that I couldn't tell anyone about them … so making friends was hard, since they could never get to know the real me. Plus, we moved over and over. Just when I'd start to trust someone, we were gone. Finally I gave up. It was easier to keep to myself or just have superficial relationships."

Sympathy filled his dark eyes. "I'm so sorry, Sarah. I don't know what would've happened to me if I hadn't had Ellie … or even Morgan, as ridiculous as he can be sometimes. You must've been so lonely."

The kindness in his voice almost undid me. I had to swallow around the lump in my throat before I answered him. "I was lonely … but after a while, it was all I knew, so I didn't even recognize it anymore. It was just part of who I was—blond hair, blue eyes, didn't let anyone in. Then I joined the CIA, and duty replaced close friendships … or anything more. I think maybe that's why I got so good at my job. There was nothing else, so I threw myself into my training to fill the void inside me. I was so used to seeking my dad's approval and calling that love, that I just replaced him with my trainers and Director Graham. All that mattered was excelling at being an agent and pleasing them … until I met you."

Despite the gravity of what we were discussing and my worry that something I'd say would drive him away, I felt content … and shielded. The feeling washed over me, wrapping me like a familiar blanket, cradling me.

"When I met you and Ellie," I said, my voice soft, afraid to shatter the moment, "and then you and I had that amazing conversation by the fountain, I started to realize everything I'd been missing. And I knew the two of you were worth whatever sacrifice I'd have to make. So I told Graham I'd resign if he reassigned me. I wanted to stay with you … but I also wanted to keep you safe."

Chuck tensed. "But your job," he said. "You just got finished telling me how it was everything to you—how it replaced your family, your friendships. You were really willing to give all of that up—for me?"

I let him see the incredulity on my face—my amazement that he'd even ask. "Of course," I said again, shrugging. "I would have given it up in a heartbeat. I still would."

"Thank you," he said, his voice a whisper. "And thank you for helping to clear my name with Stanford. I'll owe you forever for that."

"You don't owe me anything. And I didn't do anything special. You only got what you worked so hard for, Chuck—what you _earned_."

The glow of the lamps flickered in the breeze, sending shadows rippling through the courtyard. I felt almost as if we were underwater … existing in a dimension separate from the real world. I didn't want to bring anger into the cocoon we'd created, this perfect third place where redemption was possible and maybe—just maybe—Chuck felt the same way about me as I did for him … but I couldn't help myself. A fierce protective instinct had taken hold of me. I wanted to punish anyone who had ever hurt him, to stand between him and anyone who intended him harm. I felt like a wolf, her back to her den, guarding her cubs from whatever might threaten them ... because losing them would destroy her.

"What happened to you wasn't fair," I said, struggling to keep the harshness from my voice. "I just happened to have the right connections to be able to walk it back … but it should never have happened in the first place. That's the important part, the part that matters."

"Sarah." There was no mistaking the heartfelt conviction in his tone. Unlike me, Chuck had never learned to lie—and no matter how difficult his life had been, he hadn't let it break him or close him off from the people he loved. I admired that so much. "I know you went out of your way to help me get my degree … maybe even to get that reparation check. You deserve my gratitude, and I won't let you believe otherwise. You think I'm saving you … well, I could have gone years in a funk, stuck at the Buy More, bitter and feeling horrible about myself, if the weight of that injustice hadn't been lifted off my shoulders. And you did that. You made it happen. No matter what you say, I won't believe anything else … so don't bother trying."

I peeked up at him. He looked so beautiful, his hair as tousled as mine and his eyes fever-bright with the intensity of his emotions. "Okay," I said, one careful word at a time. "I won't try, then. For whatever small part I may have played in setting things right … you're welcome."

He smiled, as if I'd said the perfect thing. "So … if you don't have plans tomorrow night … do you want to come over for family dinner?"

I could feel my face fall. "I don't know, Chuck. Even if you've forgiven me, I'm sure Ellie must hate me after tonight. Why would she ever want me to sit around her table again?"

"You can ask her tomorrow. After all, it was her idea."

It had been Ellie's idea to have me come over … after I'd lied to her, infiltrated myself into the Bartowskis' lives under false pretenses, and hurt her baby brother? Was she planning a postprandial evisceration? I stared at Chuck, unsure what to say.

"Say yes," he urged, as if he could read my mind. "We're starting over, right? Devon's gonna grill … we're having burgers and twice-baked potatoes, and Ellie's making her famous margaritas. She's got a heavy hand with the tequila, but it's not like you'll have to drive home."

Looking at his eager face, I decided two things. First, if I wasn't careful, living across from the Bartowskis was going to turn me into the Stay Puft Marshmallow Woman. And second … yes, I would go.

I said as much to Chuck, who nodded as if he'd expected me to agree all along. "Great," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow, then. Seven?"

"Sure," I said, and he turned to go.

"Chuck?"

He looked back over his shoulder, his expression expectant, and I felt suddenly shy. "Thank you for this chance to be your friend. I promise I won't take it for granted … or wreck it this time around."

He strode back to me and caught me up in a huge hug. "You're more than welcome," he said, pressing his lips to my cheek. He let go before he could see the blush that stained my face … or the way I stood with my fingertips grazing the spot where he'd kissed me, long after he'd crossed the courtyard and gone back to his own apartment.

I'd gone to sleep feeling unbelievably lucky—and I woke up feeling the same way. Filled with energy, I bounced out of bed, hummed my way through a shower, and got dressed. I couldn't wait for tonight—to spend time with Chuck again, to let Ellie see the real me. The despair I'd felt driving home from Sushi Roku seemed as distant as the edge of a foreign land, glimpsed from a boat far from shore. As one of my grandmother's favorite jazz singers, Dinah Washington, was famous for saying—_what a difference a day makes.  
_

Whatever the future held, I was strong enough to face it. With Chuck by my side, I was sure I could do anything.

OoOoOoOoO

I couldn't remember ever feeling like an equal when I'd talked to Graham before.

I'd felt many ways: Apprehensive, proud, appalled, angry, frightened, eager. But always, there had been a clear sense of the hierarchy that existed between us. He gave the orders; I obeyed them.

Today was different.

"Report," he said crisply when I dialed his number and his secretary patched me through.

I leaned back in my desk chair, watching the breeze rifle through the fronds of the courtyard's palm trees, and drew a deep, centering breath. Graham no longer held power over me. If he tried to goad me into doing something that made me uncomfortable, I'd quit—simple as that. I didn't care if I wound up working at a hot dog stand or making my living as a dog groomer.

"Well," I said with a certain amount of glee, "I understand that Agent Larkin is relatively green, sir, so I attempted to share my expertise—which he was reluctant to accept. Unfortunately, when I arrived at his apartment the morning after Thanksgiving, I intercepted a woman walking out the door … one with whom he'd obviously been less than discreet. I attempted to create a cover story by stating that I was his wife, and expressing distress that he'd been cheating on me … which backfired when the woman in question appeared during my date with Chuck Bartowski. I was able to salvage the situation by telling Chuck and his sister the truth about my role as a CIA agent—but it was a close call."

There was silence on Graham's end of the line. Over the years, I'd become accustomed to all sorts of silences from the CIA's director—be they contemplative, anticipatory, or something else entirely. This one was coated with a scrim of icy disapproval. I could tell from the way Graham was breathing—shallow, with a hitch on the exhale. He'd been quiet like that in my presence before … right before he gave an agent the axe.

"I see," he said after a solid minute. "All the more reason for Agent Larkin to be called back to Langley. He arrives this afternoon; rest assured I'll be discussing this matter with him shortly thereafter."

"Whatever you think is best, sir," I said, suppressing a grin.

"Anything else?"

"Yes, sir. Ellie Bartowski invited me over for a family dinner—which I will admit is a relief, inasmuch as I wasn't sure how she'd react to knowing the truth about my presence in Burbank."

Graham hummed with satisfaction. "I'm glad to see my confidence in you was not misplaced, Agent Walker."

"Thank you, sir. I will say that I feel the dinner invitation is a test, to some degree. Ellie is a person who values honesty. If I don't remain straightforward with her, I don't think she'll give me a third opportunity."

"Fair enough, Agent Walker. While I appreciate your commitment to honesty, I'm sure that I don't need to reaffirm the importance of circumspection." Graham's voice held a hint of warning.

"Of course not, sir." My gaze traveled from the palms to the fountain in the center of the courtyard … watching the water that flowed from the top into the basin, varying in speed and power, taking the shape of whatever container it inhabited. While I might be fully inhabiting my own skin for the first time where Chuck and Ellie were concerned, when it came to Graham, I still needed to alter my shape to fit what he expected to see. "Being able to speak honestly with the Bartowskis has already proved fruitful. During our discussion about Orion, Ellie shared that she'd previously come across some of her father's work suggesting the existence of Project Omaha as a possibility—at least, from her perspective as a neurologist."

"Is that so?" I could detect a hint of excitement in Graham's voice.

"I thought it seemed promising." Swiveling away from the window, I stood up, pacing the length of my bedroom. "The advanced search engine that Chuck's been working on seems like it might prove to be a useful tool in finding Orion. May I suggest that we be aboveboard about the antivirus and search engine that the CIA retrieved from Chuck's hard drive? The Agency could offer to buy the exclusive rights to the software from him."

"Software which we already have." Graham's tone was dry.

"Yes, but not acquired in an effort of good faith." I tried to sound reasonable, rather than the way I felt—rebellious and pissed off. _Not in an effort of good faith _was about two dance steps away from saying _You stole it from him, and now you intend to use it to your advantage.  
_

"I'll consider it," Graham said—which, I knew, was the best that I was likely to get out of him.

"Thank you, sir."

"I have another appointment in five minutes, Agent. Is there anything else you'd like to discuss?"

"Yes, sir. Has the removal of the surveillance equipment been scheduled? It needs to be done today, while the Bartowskis and Devon are at work." 'Need' was not normally a word that Graham would tolerate hearing me say; he didn't allow his agents to make demands. In this case, however, I hoped he'd be willing to make an exception. I hadn't mentioned the equipment to Chuck and Ellie, figuring there was a limit to what even they were willing to tolerate … but my guilt surged in accordance with every second that it remained in place.

"I am, as usual, one step ahead of you. It's scheduled to be removed in"—there was a pause as he checked the time—"seven minutes. If you have no further concerns, I'll check in with you following your meal with the Bartowskis—say, eight AM tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," I said again, and he disconnected the call.

Seven minutes, Graham had said. I spent them floating around my apartment in what I could only describe as a dizzy fog of happiness. Graham was pleased. Chuck wanted to see me again. And the cameras would be out of his apartment by the time I sat down to dinner with him and his sister tonight.

Six minutes and thirty seconds later, I logged onto the surveillance software for what would be the last time and watched Graham's team extract the equipment from Chuck's apartment. My feed of the entrance was the last to go.

I shut down my computer, grabbed my bag, and crossed the courtyard to sweep the apartment for any bugs that might accidentally-on-purpose have been left behind … but none remained. Satisfied, I locked the door behind me and went shopping for the perfect outfit to wear tonight … the first night of my new life.

OoOoOoOoO

I wore brand-new dark wash jeans and a red cross-front eyelash sweater, in the softest material I could find. Black spike-heeled ankle boots completed my ensemble. I'd put in some serious time with a curling iron, so my hair fell in waves around my face, and used a hint of blush, mascara, and coral lip gloss. Excitement heated my cheeks, making it look as if I'd been more liberal with the blush brush than I'd intended.

At seven o' clock on the dot, I stood in front of the Bartowskis' door and knocked, the irises I'd bought in hand. Three seconds later, Chuck pulled the door wide. He was grinning at me—that blinding, happy smile I'd come to love. He'd made a valiant attempt at taming his dark curls into submission, and he was wearing a forest-green button down and khakis … fancier, I imagined, than what he usually wore to family cookouts. It made me happy to think that he'd wanted to look good for me, too.

"Hey," he said, and I found myself smiling in response. "Thanks for the flowers. Purple's Ellie's favorite color."

She'd been wearing a purple sweater last night, so I'd hoped she'd have a special affinity for the irises—creamy white, with a delicate tracing of purple around their edges. Having finely attuned powers of observation ought to count for something. "You're welcome," I said as he gestured for me to come in.

The house smelled amazing—like vanilla and fir trees. I glanced around and found the source: A single candle, set in the middle of the dining room table, its flame dancing in the small air currents that wound their way through the room. What was it about this place that drew me in so inexorably—a magnet to its pole, a river to the sea? It went beyond my intense attraction to Chuck. I wanted to curl up in a corner of the living room couch with a blanket, a book, and a cup of tea like a magazine advertisement for contentment.

"Care for a tasty beverage?" Chuck said, cocking an eyebrow. "I challenge you to drink a couple of Ellie's margaritas and remain unaffected … even if you are a super-spy."

"I'd love one … thanks." It was the absolute truth. I couldn't imagine facing Ellie without some form of liquid courage.

He led the way into the kitchen, where Ellie stood at the counter, slicing limes. The sharp scent of citrus rose in the air as she spun to face me.

"Hey, Sarah," she said, smiling cordially enough … but I could see the tenseness in her jaw. She might be allowing me in her house … but dinner would be part cookout, part interrogation.

"Hi, Ellie. Thank you for having me," I said, and thrust the flowers at her in self-defense.

The smile broadened. "I love irises. Chuck, can you grab me a vase?"

He gave her a wary look, then ducked out of the room. I heard him rustling around in the dining room, opening cabinet doors, a moment before Ellie set the flowers on the counter and turned to me. "My brother really likes you," she said, in the tone I imagined she would use to present a dire diagnosis. "And so do I—despite everything. Don't screw this up a second time."

Before I could protest that I had no intention of doing any such thing, Chuck was back, vase in hand. He filled it at the sink, and Ellie pivoted, as smoothly as if that was what she'd meant to do all along, and handed me a glass tumbler, salt encrusting its rim. "Enjoy," she said.

"Thanks." I took a sip, and discovered that Chuck hadn't been joking. The lime juice and orange liqueur blended well enough, but there was no doubt that Ellie had been a bit heavy-handed with the Patron Silver tequila I saw sitting on the counter. Even though Chuck had warned me the drinks would be strong, I couldn't help but think that this might be part of Ellie's plan to loosen my lips in order to extract more of the truth. I couldn't blame her if it was.

As Ellie prepared Chuck's drink, I asked him about his day—mainly to divert him from asking about mine, which would have forced me to lie. After all, I'd spent the past few hours dealing with Graham and overseeing the removal of the surveillance … not exactly something I could share.

Maybe it was the liquor—or maybe just the man himself—but I felt warm all over when he gave me his crooked smile, launching into a rambling story about documenting everything that his replacement at the Buy More would need to know. His threat assessment included how to deal with the zombie outbreak that might arise after someone—on a dare—ate the leftover food from the mystery crisper in the break room's refrigerator; Anna's proclivity for breaking out in spontaneous interpretive dance when bored; mandatory feeding times to avoid one of Morgan's 'hangry' episodes; and Jeff and Lester's disgusting behavior, which was as offensive as it was ham-handed.

"Maybe I should draft a manual," he said at last with perfect seriousness, taking a swig of his margarita. "The Chuck Bartowski Guide to Handling the Unexpected, Unprecedented, and Undead."

I giggled, inhaled—and almost choked on my drink. "Excuse me," I muttered, and escaped down the hall toward the bathroom to stem the flood of laughter-induced tears streaming out of my eyes. Standing in front of the mirror, dabbing at my mascara, I tried not to think about how I'd known where the bathroom was without asking. Did I need to tell Chuck and Ellie about the surveillance equipment if it had only been there for a few short days, and I'd personally overseen its removal? I wanted to forget all about it—but the thought that there was still something I was concealing from the Bartowski siblings haunted me.

OoOoOoOoO

Dinner was as delectable as Chuck had promised. Devon, who'd been outside grilling when I arrived, brought the burgers inside on a platter, as ceremoniously as if it held the crown jewels. "Medium rare," he announced, "the only way to eat a burger. Also, hello, Sarah. Nice to see you again."

He set the burgers on the table with a flourish as I helped Chuck grab the condiments and accoutrements: ketchup; three kinds of mustard (regular yellow, Dijon, and spicy brown); mayo; sautéed onions and mushrooms; pickles; sliced avocadoes; and some sizzling strips of bacon that Ellie'd thrown in a pan while I was in the bathroom, doing my best not to impersonate a raccoon. Next came the twice-baked potatoes, overflowing with sour cream, cheddar, chives, and bacon bits.

"And," Devon said, rummaging in the refrigerator and coming up with a cut-glass pitcher, "in case anyone gets tired of Ellie's awesome margaritas—not that anyone would, babe, but you know I like to have a backup plan—I've made my grandma's killer sweet tea. Not that it's, you know, actually killed anyone. And if it did, well, you've got two doctors here to revive you. But seriously, no cookout's complete without it."

He pulled a glass from the cabinet next to the stove and poured a glass, offering it to me. "Guests first."

Obligingly, I took a sip. It was strong, sweet—the sugar so intense as to be intoxicating—and delicious.

"Well?" Devon prodded, watching me.

"It's amazing," I managed, tossing back the rest of the glass. "And it's good I'm not a diabetic. After a glass of this, I definitely don't need dessert."

He grinned, revealing a dazzling display of teeth that had doubtless kept an orthodontist in business, and we all settled down to eat, taking the same chairs we had at Thanksgiving. Even though that had just been a couple of days before, it felt like forever. I'd been a different person then.

"So," Ellie said, reaching for the mayo, "what's new, Sarah?"

It felt like a loaded question—because it was. Still, there was no way she could know about the surveillance removal … was there? What if she and Chuck had set up surveillance of their own?

I was being paranoid. They had no reason to do that, even if Chuck's technical abilities made such a thing an easy task. Taking a sip of the fresh margarita Ellie'd set at my place for courage, I began, "Honestly—" and shot a look at Devon.

Ellie intercepted my glance and nodded, giving me what I interpreted as the all-clear to speak in front of her boyfriend. I'd suspected she'd told him everything; that was, after all, what I imagined someone in an honest, open relationship would do. _Suspected _and _imagined _were, of course, the key words here … but I was learning.

"I, um—" It was time to stop dithering and pull myself together. I never dithered. Now would be a poor time to start. "I spoke with the Director and told him that you knew everything. So, now we're all on the same page."

"Good," Ellie said, the single syllable clipped. "Chuck, please pass the avocado."

I wanted to apologize again for lying to them, but I knew that would be pointless. I'd already told them how sorry I was. All that would make a difference now would be proving my worth to them through my actions. So I tried my best to be a good guest, making conversation with Ellie and Devon about their work at the hospital, praising Devon on the quality of his burgers ("the secret," he said, leaning across the table toward me as if—ironically—he might be overheard, "is Worcestershire sauce, kosher salt, fresh-ground black pepper, an egg, and Italian breadcrumbs"), and consuming enough of Ellie's margaritas to take the edge off my self-consciousness.

Ellie, for her part, wasn't slacking off on the margarita consumption, either. "You know," she said, taking a big bite of her burger and then washing it down with a sizable slug of her drink, "I've been thinking about when our dad left. It's such a long time ago, I don't dwell on it anymore … but our conversation last night brought it to mind again."

Across the table, I saw Chuck sit up straight, his eyes on his sister. The last thing I wanted was to make him feel uncomfortable. "Ellie," I began uneasily, "you don't need to—"

"He'd promised to make us pancakes for dinner. Remember that, Chuck?" She turned to face him, and I could swear I saw her eyes sparkle with a sheen of tears.

"Of course I do." His voice was low, cautious. "We were out of eggs and maple syrup. You said you'd be okay with honey instead, but he said he wanted you to be happy—that he wanted to make them the right way. So he left … and he never came back."

Silence fell, the festive atmosphere sucked out of the room as if a black hole hovered over the table. Ellie broke it.

"I couldn't believe he'd leave us willingly, not after my mom abandoned us. But after what you suggested, Sarah—I got to thinking. Maybe he left to keep us safe."

Looking from Ellie to her brother, I could see the dawning of hope on both their faces, like a light shone into a cavern that had been pitch-dark for years. "It's possible," I said, thinking about my own parents. No matter how crappy a father my dad had been, I still missed him. And my mom—well, my feelings for her were like an invasive vine tangled around a healthy plant. The guilt I felt for leaving her—for choosing my father instead—tended to overshadow everything else, but when I could set that aside, I remembered just how good of a mother she'd been. I missed her, more than I was usually willing to admit.

Trying to keep the feeling at bay, I picked up my glass and drained it. When I set it down, Chuck's eyes were on my face, his gaze soft. "You miss your mom, don't you," he said.

I must have been drunker than I realized, because I found myself telling him—telling all of them—the truth. "I do. Sometimes, I miss her a lot. But I feel like I burned every bridge that could lead me back to her. I don't even know if she still lives in San Diego."

Chuck tilted his head, appearing to consider this. "I get that. But I gotta admit, if my dad's still out there somewhere—if he didn't leave us on purpose—I'd do just about anything to have him back again."

His tone was matter of fact … but the sadness in his eyes gutted me, and when I glanced at Ellie, I saw a determined expression settle over her face. "All right," she said, pushing her chair back from the table and standing up—somewhat unsteadily. "That does it. Sarah, come with me."

Baffled, I followed her out of the dining room and into the bedroom she shared with Devon. Holding up a finger for me to wait, she disappeared into the closet and came out holding a lockbox. She set it down on the end of the bed, opened it, and pulled out a leather-bound journal.

"Here," she said simply.

I took the journal from her. The leather was cool in my hands, but I held the book gingerly, as if it were an incendiary device. "What is it?" I said, though I suspected I already knew.

"My father's journal. All of the notes I told you about yesterday. I want you to have them. Maybe they'll help you figure out what you're looking for. I don't know … maybe you can even find him. Either way, Chuck and I—we want to help if we can." Her gaze was steady on mine, the intensity in it unflinching. I was the one who had to look away.

"But why?" My voice cracked. "Why would you trust me with this, after I lied to you?"

"Because of how you looked at my brother, when you saw he was in pain. You love him, Sarah. Maybe you haven't even fully admitted that to yourself yet, but I know love when I see it. I'd say falling in love at first sight is so much malarkey, but I also know how special Chuck is. If there's anyone who's worthy of that, it's him."

The tequila swam through my head, combining with Ellie's words to make me dizzy. I knew I'd fallen for Chuck—but was that the same as love? Did I … _could _I … already love him?

Whether or not I was willing to admit to myself, I knew the answer. "Yes," I said to Ellie, gripping the book until I felt my nails dig into the leather, "he is."

We walked back out to the dining room together, me pausing in the living room to slip the journal under my clutch. The rest of the night passed in a blur of burgers and margaritas and conversation, Ellie refilling our glasses whenever they got low and Devon good-naturedly protesting how there was still half a pitcher of his grandmother's sweet tea left. Finally, after a dessert of eclairs that Chuck had picked up at a local bakery, I declared that I couldn't eat—or drink—one more thing.

"I'm going home before you need to call me a cab to get me across the courtyard," I said, wobbling to my feet.

After the requisite protests, Chuck offered to walk me home. As we stepped into the courtyard, he offered me his arm—"Just in case you need a little help." I took it, welcoming any excuse to touch him.

"Chuck," I said hesitantly, "are you really okay with looking for your dad? I don't want you to feel pressured into this."

"I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to," he said, looking down at me. There was a smidge of chocolate on his chin, and I fought the urge to wipe it away. He'd forgiven me, welcomed me back into his life as a friend … but did that mean he was still open to something more?

"Sure, I feel conflicted," he went on, oblivious, as I averted my eyes from his face and wished desperately for sobriety. "Hopeful, yeah, but also resentful. But in the end … it's time. With clearing everything up about Stanford, getting my diploma—I just feel like this is the next natural step."

"Okay." We'd arrived at my door, but I paused, wanting to spend as much time with him as I could. "If it's what you really want, then I'll do everything in my power to help you find your father."

"Thank you. But—I had a thought." The openness on his face unsettled me, and once again, I found myself looking at the ground, the fountain, the courtyard lamps—anywhere than directly at him. "If I'm trying to find my dad, then maybe you could look for your mom, too. Maybe this wouldn't be so hard—so scary—if we did it together."

Panic rose up in my throat, choking me. "Find my mom?"

"You can reconnect with her, Sarah. I know you can. If I can, then you can too." He touched my cheek, turning my face toward his. In his eyes I saw a puzzling amount of faith in me—and the strength I would need to make this choice.

"Can I think about it?"

"Of course." That gorgeous smile broke across his face again. I found it—_him —_irresistible.

Before I could second-guess myself, I grabbed his shirt in my fist, tugged him toward me, and went up on my tiptoes to kiss him. He tasted like chocolate and salt and tequila, a delicious, addictive combination.

I was worried he'd pull away, but instead his mouth moved in concert with mine, deepening the kiss as his fingers wove their way into my hair, holding me close. Startled, I stepped backwards once, then again, until we fell against the door of my apartment. His body molded into mine as if it was meant to be there, and I reached up, twining my arms around his neck, every nerve in my body on fire.

Chuck's hands left my hair, sliding down my body slowly, reverently, until they came to rest on my hips. His touch was so gentle. "Sarah?"

I nodded, too breathless to speak.

"I'm going to go home," he said, leaning his forehead against mine and sounding equally out of breath, "before I debauch you against this door. But I would like to ask—can I see you tomorrow?"

"Yes," I said, and felt him smile.

"I'll call you," he said, and, turning, made his way across the courtyard toward home.

* * *

A/N: This is a tough time for everyone, and we hope that reading the latest installment of The Guy Who Loved Me has provided you with some welcome distraction. As long as you keep reading, we'll keep writing! We'd love to know what you think. And if you want Ellie's margarita recipe, we're pleased to provide that too. ;) Next week, we hope to have a surprise or two—an exhumation, if you will. Stay tuned, stay connected, and most importantly, stay safe.

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	9. Penitence and Pierogi

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 9:** **Penitence and Pierogi  
**

The morning after Chuck threatened to debauch me against my front door, I woke feeling as if I inhabited someone else's skin.

I'd never—not once—been kissed the way Chuck had kissed me last night … as if he _had _to, as if I were air and he couldn't breathe me in fast enough. Nor had I ever felt the way I did in his arms … as if I were made from tinder and he'd ignited the flame, as if however close I got to him, it wouldn't suffice. Aside from marks, I'd only kissed a boy or two in high school, so it wasn't as if I had much basis for comparison … but I'd never imagined kissing might transform my essential self this way: from Ice Queen to a woman ablaze. I felt like the heroine in a romance novel, except I was the one who wanted to do the so-called ravishing. After all, I'd kissed him first.

I felt like I was floating, like every Harlequin cliché come to life. But I also felt the heavy weight of an inexplicable guilt dragging me down, like an anchor tied to my body, tugging me into the depths. It took two cups of coffee, an hour and a half of work, and the willingness to engage in some serious introspection to figure out what was bothering me: the specter of my mother, raised by Chuck's questions and now haunting me as surely as a ghost in an old, abandoned churchyard … if I believed in such things. My mom certainly had; she'd been a fount of Polish superstitions, passed down to her by my grandmother. _Don't sit down while a cake is baking, it'll turn out flat. Don't count the pierogi while they're cooking, or half of them will be ruined. Marry someone in a month that has the letter 'r' in its Polish name—you'll always have good luck.  
_

She'd married my father in January—_stycze__ń__, _in Polish. Maybe their relationship had been doomed from the start.

I didn't like thinking about my mother. I'd gone to some serious lengths over the years to avoid it. But telling the truth about who I was and what I was doing in Burbank had come with some unanticipated consequences, and now here I sat, haunted.

How could I expect Chuck to look for his dad, if I wasn't brave enough to do the same when it came to my mom? But how could I ever face my mom again, after what I'd done to her … how I'd deserted her? She'd loved me … cared for me … cherished me … and I'd basically given her the finger in return. Sure, I'd been only seven—but what about all the years after that? How had I allowed my dad to brainwash me into believing what he offered me was a better way of life? And how had I allowed my shame to override the desire to see my mother for so many years—was I that prideful, or that much of a coward?

I was disgusted with myself, torn between being brave enough to confront the wreckage of my relationship with my mom and letting Chuck down. If I told him I wasn't ready, that I couldn't do it, he'd accept that … but would he think less of me? I hated the thought of disappointing him yet again.

Tired of the thoughts circling my head like water around the proverbial drain, I decided to check out downtown Burbank while Chuck was at work. After all, this was my home now; it behooved me to familiarize myself. I found a spot off Orange Grove and strolled down to San Fernando, loving how the palm trees that lined the street were strung with twinkling lights for the holidays. The sidewalks were inlaid with red bricks, giving the neighborhood a cozy, old-fashioned feel, and the massive Christmas tree on the AMC walkway towered above me, festooned with ornaments and giant snowflakes.

I paused, looking down at the sidewalk, where a worn etching read: BURBANK ENTERTAINMENT VILLAGE: DOWNTOWN BURBANK. It looked nothing like the CIA seal I'd stepped over almost a week ago … but I had the same sense of crossing over some kind of sacred threshold. Back then, when my indoctrination had begun to take shape, I'd been declaring my loyalty to the CIA and all it signified; now, I was claiming a community as my own. This felt just as symbolic, somehow.

The entertainment village was multilevel, with a stunning, brightly-colored mural opposite the place where I stood. I wandered, taking in restaurants, boutiques, and shops … and froze.

A familiar scent was wafting through the air toward me, borne on the breeze. I smelled sautéeing onions … butter … and an ineffable _je ne sais quoi _that made me think of home—my first home, where I'd grown up with both my parents. My feet followed in the path of the aroma, leading me to a restaurant with a bright red awning inscribed with black print: _Aneta's Polish Café. _Wooden tables crowned with scarlet umbrellas lined the sidewalk outside the café, and waitstaff in black-and-scarlet aprons delivered heaping plates of the foods I'd grown up eating: Sauerkraut, a sweet bread called _chalka, _and the food I'd smelled, the one that had lured me to Aneta's: pierogi.

My mom and I had made pierogi together every Sunday, in a nod to our shared Polish ancestry. It was one of our traditions, something I couldn't bear to think about after I'd left her. She'd put 1960s folk music on the radio and hum along as she danced around the kitchen, pulling out everything we needed to make the dough—flour, salt, eggs, butter, and sour cream. I'd felt so proud the first time she let me whisk the ingredients together myself and knead the dough—like she trusted me to do the most important part. We'd stand next to each other, each of us with a cookie cutter, cutting out rounds before we spooned in whatever fillings we'd chosen this time around: potatoes and onions, mushrooms and sauerkraut, beef and cheddar. I could still see my mother's slender, long-fingered hands folding the pierogi into little half-moons, as deft as any surgeon's.

The pierogi were always delicious—but that hadn't been why I'd treasured these times the most. No, I'd loved them because, as we stood side by side in our ranch house's tiny kitchen, my mom would really _talk _to me … not the way she normally did, nagging me to pick up my dirty socks or put my napkin in my lap, but in an open, confiding way, as if occupying her hands somehow gave her the freedom to speak her mind.

"Sweetheart," she'd said once, a few short weeks before I'd left for good, "I know you heard me arguing with your dad the other night. I'm sorry for it. I never wanted you to grow up this way."

We never talked about the way they fought—viciously, with slammed doors and hissing accusations. My eyes had flashed wide before I'd looked away from her, fixing on the black-and-white linoleum, feeling like we'd violated an unspoken code of ethics.

"Your father—" she'd said, her hands busy with the dough, "he—well. I married him knowing he'd never be happy with an office job, somewhere he was stuck behind a desk all day. He'd always liked a touch of adventure. It's what I loved about him, in the beginning. But this—what he's become—I worry for him, Samana, for all of us. I don't want you to think …"

Her voice had trailed off, and I'd thought that was the end of it. Joni Mitchell's voice had filled the silence, singing how everyone was in it for their own gain, you just couldn't please them all. The song was called _A Free Man in Paris; _I remembered it, because my mother, who had never traveled much, always told me she'd take me to Paris one day.

But we weren't in Paris. We were in our tiny kitchen, and to my horror, tears were running down my mother's face, threatening to mix with the unorthodox filling we'd made this time around, at my request: blueberries, with a hint of sugar and lemon. "For dessert," I'd suggested, and my mother had laughed, her blue eyes that were so much like mine crinkling up at the corners. She wasn't laughing now, though—far from it—and that scared me. I'd never seen my mother cry.

"What I want," she'd begun, swiping at her cheeks to wipe the tears away, "is for you to someday find a man who fulfills you. Who makes you happy, yes, but who challenges you too. You deserve someone who makes you into the best version of yourself—so that when you're with him, you're more than you were before."

I'd stared at her, watching her press her fingers into the dough just a little too hard, so that the careful half-moons she'd created stretched and tore. The blueberry filling leaked onto the counter, thick as spilled blood. At seven, I didn't totally understand what she meant … but I remembered what she looked like when my dad yelled at her sometimes, as if she were shrinking into herself, as if she wished she could disappear. He didn't make her _more_. He was smudging her around the edges, I realized, bit by tiny bit, as if she were a sketch and his hand held the eraser. Maybe soon I wouldn't be able to recognize her anymore.

Heedless of the bits of dough that clung to her fingertips, she'd crossed the kitchen to me and wrapped her arms around me, holding me close. I breathed in the familiar scent of her jasmine perfume, mixed with blueberries and butter and the saltiness of her tears. "Don't ever settle for someone who makes you question who you are, Sam. Find a man who pushes you to challenge yourself—but who accepts you and loves you just the same."

I'd nodded and told her I would … but fear had taken root inside me. I imagined my mother disappearing—first the outline of her body, then her beautiful long-fingered hands, then her face. If she stayed with my father, what would be left?

Right there, in that moment, I'd made a choice. I'd forgotten all about it until now, standing outside Aneta's, buried it under a morass of guilt and shame … but now it came roaring back, with the force of a thousand winds. _I need to protect her_, I'd thought, watching her turn back to our pierogi, her shoulders slumped with sadness. _Dad wants me to go away with him, so we can have adventures together. __If I leave, she will be safe. Then he can't erase her anymore. But if I stay—well, then he will always come back for me.  
_

I knew that the way I knew my own name, or the way I knew I liked peach pie better than apple. My father said he loved me; but he also thought of me as _his_. His creation, his little girl who would sit for hours, watching him perform sleight of hand tricks or talk about the way he'd pulled one over the guys at the casino. If I didn't come with him, he might still leave—but he would come back again and again, like the boomerang he'd gotten me for my birthday. The only way to keep my mother safe was to go._  
_

Well, I'd left. And I'd promised myself he wouldn't erase _me. _I'd thought of myself as brave and creative and resourceful … but what if, in allowing my father to mold me in his own image, I'd been complicit in my own erasure after all?

It had taken meeting Chuck to make me see that. He'd accepted me, no matter what I'd told him about myself. He cared for me. And, just as my mother wanted, he pushed me to be a better version of myself. When I was with him, I felt fresh and new, filled with possibility—like Samana, not the jaded Sarah I'd come to recognize.

I wanted to find my mother. I wanted to tell her she'd been right all along—and that I'd made my choice not because I didn't love her, but because I loved her so desperately that I'd do anything to keep her safe from harm … to keep her from being erased. I'd made myself forget that; it hurt too much to remember. But now, breathing in the scents of my childhood, I let myself sink into the memories of what it had felt like to have my mother's arms tight around me, holding me close as if I were the most precious thing in the world to her. I breathed deeply, my lungs filling with the aroma of jasmine and sugar-sweet blueberries instead of the onion-and-potato mélange that drifted from Aneta's to where I stood.

And I knew what I had to do.

OoOoOoOoO

Back at my apartment, I sat down in front of my computer and did what I could've done all along … if I'd had the guts. I used the CIA's resources to find my mother.

But really, I discovered as I stared at the screen, my breath coming short and my hands shaking, such extreme measures were unnecessary. My mother was exactly where I'd left her: In the little stucco ranch house in southern San Diego, at the address I'd been taught to recite from memory if I ever got lost or snatched. I pulled the house up on Google Maps and zoomed in, feeling sick to my stomach. There were the palm trees in the front yard that had been tiny when I left all those years ago, grown to the height of the house. The honeysuckle vine I'd planted with my mom had grown to cover the entire arbor. It wouldn't bloom until the spring, but the vine was still there, healthy and strong.

The house was small but tidy, the burnt-sienna paint job impeccably kept up. My mom had added a small stone fountain in the front yard, decorated with cherubs, with a stone bench beside it. In the image Google Maps had captured, a small bird sat on the edge of the fountain, beak thrust into the water.

She was still there. She'd never left.

Looking at the image of the house on Rene Court was too much. It hurt my heart. I diverted my focus to more practical matters: Where did she work? How did she spend her days? Was there a new husband in the picture, someone who might have some choice words for me if I decided to reappear in her life?

Getting these answers was easy enough. My mother wasn't trying to hide, after all. In fact, as I did a little more digging, I discovered that over the years, she'd invested a great deal of time and money in attempting to find me.

The pain in my heart intensified, escalating from a dull ache to a sharp, stabbing sensation. I pushed back from the computer and doubled over, arms wrapped around myself, trying to hold back the tears.

She worked at a daycare, spending her days taking care of other people's kids, now that her own child was gone. All that loving, nurturing energy—that's how she'd channeled it. She'd never married again, never had any other children. And the small amount of savings she'd been able to cobble together from what was doubtless a low-paying job … she'd used it to search for the daughter who'd left her.

All these years, I'd been afraid she was furious with me, but instead, she'd been searching for me, trying to bring me home. And I could've found her with a click of a button. Hell, all I'd had to do was drive by the place where I'd grown up. But what had I done? Avoided her out of fear and guilt that had only multiplied as the years passed. Let her suffer, when I could have assuaged her worries just by writing a damn letter.

I was a horrible person.

But I didn't have to leave it this way, I reminded myself, sitting up. Just like Chuck, I had a choice.

Shutting down the computer, I grabbed my car keys and drove to the Buy More. When I stepped through the sliding doors, Chuck was there, behind the Nerd Herd desk with Morgan. He excused himself when he saw me, and we walked over to the closest aisle, trying to achieve a modicum of privacy. It wasn't easy; over Chuck's shoulder, I could see Morgan peering at us from amidst the forest of hair that camouflaged his face. The guy was worse than an elderly busybody who had nothing better to do than peer out of her curtains in search of neighborhood shenanigans all day.

"Are you all right?" Chuck said, reaching out to touch my hand. "You look—"

"I found my mother," I blurted.

A wave of shock washed the concerned expression on his face clean. "Already? Wow, that was fast."

I gave him a lukewarm grin. "I am in the CIA, you know. But I didn't need to use the Company's resources to find her. She was right where I left her, Chuck, in the house where I grew up. I could've gone back to see her anytime."

His eyes scanned my face, maybe searching for clues to what I was feeling. Finally he said, his voice determined, "And now you will."

"That's not the point!" To keep myself from crying, I focused on the DVD covers on the display behind him: _Pretty in Pink, Better off Dead, The Breakfast Club, Back to the Future, Raiders of the Lost Ark, E.T., Top Gun._ Apparently the Buy More was having some kind of '80s revival. My mom and I had loved those movies. We'd watched them together every Sunday after we ate the pierogi, making Jiffy Pop on the stove and then dousing it with butter and salt. God, was the universe conspiring to make me think about her with every single thing I saw or heard or smelled? "The point is … I was a coward, Chuck. I abandoned her. And what I found—God … she's been searching for me all this time. She never gave up on me … even when I left her behind."

Despite myself, a single tear escaped my eye, rolling down my cheek. Gently, Chuck swept it away. "Sarah, you were just a kid. You try to protect everyone around you—I don't think you can help it. But it isn't your job to protect her."

Not for the first time, I wondered if he could read my mind. "What do you mean?" I said, sniffling.

"Do you really not see it?" He stroked my hair, his gaze soft. "You risked your job to protect me and Ellie from being used by the government. You took a job protecting our country from threats, no matter whether or not it was your idea in the first place. You must've stayed away from your mother because you didn't want her to be tainted by the type of work you had to do … not that I know what that is, specifically, but I can't imagine that you spent your days baking truffles and sipping tea."

Truffles? Tea? If Morgan was channeling the spirit of an elderly neighborhood busybody, maybe Chuck was the reincarnation of an upper-crust Englishwoman … cross-bred with a tech wiz. I rolled my eyes, suppressing a giggle despite myself, and saw an answering smile on his face.

"I love the way you see me," I mumbled, looking at the ground. "I wish I could see myself the same way."

"I wish that, too. But for now—I guess it'll have to be enough that I return some of the faith that you had in me, when we first met." With a careful touch—as if he were afraid I might bolt—he raised my face. "One thing I've learned ever since you came into my life … it's no good to spend your time looking back. Whatever happened before, you've decided to find your mom now. That's all that matters."

I drew a deep breath. _Find a man who pushes you to challenge yourself —but who accepts you and loves you just the same. _"Will you come with me?"

The expression of surprise on his face was comical. "What? Now?"

"No." Now I did laugh—I couldn't stop myself. "I'm not _that _impatient. But … you did say we could do this together. And I … it would mean a lot to me if you came."

He stared at me, wordless, and I began to worry that I'd gone too far. "You don't have to, of course," I said, trying to backtrack. "I mean, I know you have things to do, work and family and …"

"Sarah." He cut me off, his smile widening. "I would love to go with you."

"Really?"

"Of course. I'm honored that you'd even ask." He laced his fingers through mine. "I've got tomorrow off, and plenty of vacation. We can go whenever you want."

Relief streaked through me, happiness on its heels. A road trip with Chuck—with my mom at the other end of it. "Could we go today?"

"Absolutely." His grin lit up the room, removing any doubt that he'd agreed to go with me out of a sense of obligation or pity. "It would be my absolute pleasure."

OoOoOoOoO

I waited for him to get off work—there was just an hour or so left in his shift—and then drove us back to Echo Park. If I'd thought he was happy to come with me before, that was nothing compared to his mood now. Light seemed to leak out of him, transforming his normally-sunny disposition into incandescence. He kept sneaking glances over at me as I drove, opening his mouth as if he wanted to say something and then shutting it again. After a while he actually started to hum, a familiar melody I couldn't quite place. After a minute or two I realized what it was—the theme song to this cheesy old show my mom and I used to watch called The Greatest American Hero.

God, did all roads lead to her today … so to speak? And could the guy I'd fallen for be any more of an adorable nerd?

We pulled up in front of the apartment complex and I parked the Jeep. "So," I said, interrupting his humming, "I don't know how long this will take, so … maybe we should pack for overnight?"

"You got it." He bounced out of the car. "I'll meet you back here in twenty minutes—if that's okay?"

We went our separate ways in the courtyard. I unlocked my door and went in to my bedroom to drag my suitcase out of the closet, still feeling warm all over from the contact high of being with Chuck. His joy was infectious—but as I tossed my toiletries into my bag, anxiety crept back in. What if my mother wouldn't see me? What if she didn't want anything to do with me?

What if I was making a terrible mistake?

Gritting my teeth, I wheeled my bag back out to the Jeep. I'd loaded it in and was leaning against the hood, trying to ward off panic, when Chuck appeared, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. At least he, unlike certain federal agents, didn't pack for the apocalypse.

"Hey," he said, giving me a shy smile. "Ready?"

"Sure. But—" I hesitated, unsure if this would be asking too much. "Would you mind driving? I just … I'm kind of distracted … and a little nervous …"

"The great race car driver's handing over her keys?" He winked at me, lightening the moment. "Give 'em here."

I loved that he wasn't making a big deal about this, making me feel self-conscious or awkward. "Thank you," I said, tossing the keys to him.

"If you think you need to thank me for the privilege of chauffeuring a gorgeous woman … no, scratch that, a gorgeous, _brave _woman … then we need to have a longer conversation, Sarah." Raising his eyebrows at me, he popped the hatch, loaded his bag into the back, and slammed it shut.

So much for not making a big deal about this. I slid into the passenger seat to hide the blood that had suddenly found its way to my cheeks, but it did no good; I was still blushing when he climbed behind the wheel. Luckily, he didn't seem to notice … or he was just too polite to mention it. Knowing Chuck, it was probably the latter; he didn't seem to miss much.

Instead, he busied himself with plugging in an MP3 player. "What kind of music do you like?"

I shrugged. "Music's never really been my thing."

"Not your thing?" His mouth opened in an expression of mock-horror. "Why not?"

"I don't know. I just never had the time, I guess." I didn't have the emotional wherewithal to tell him about those Sunday afternoons in the kitchen with my mother, listening to the folk music she loved. After that, I'd stayed away from the radio and steered clear of buying CDs. It didn't matter what kind of music I'd listened to; it all made me think of her. The same went for movies. Unfortunately, this had created a situation in which my knowledge of pop culture was pretty much nonexistent.

"Classic rock?" he pressed. "Alternative? Pop? Folk? Jazz? I've got pretty much anything you could think of."

"Pick whatever you like," I told him. "I really don't have a clue."

Muttering to himself, he punched a couple of buttons. A moment later, a man's cheerful voice filled the car, singing about how he was my only friend—well, not my only friend, he was a little glowing friend—but really he wasn't actually my friend …

I shot Chuck an exasperated glare. "Clearly, I haven't been missing much."

"This is They Might Be Giants," he protested. "Do not disparage They Might Be Giants."

Now the man was singing about a blue canary in the outlet by the light switch. I sighed. "Was he on acid when he wrote this?"

"So you do have musical taste." He gave me the glare right back. "It's just happens to be bad."

I punched him in the shoulder, not hard enough to hurt. "Stop giving me crap. You're the one who insists on listening to music. I'm just providing feedback, as requested."

Now it was Chuck's turn to sigh. He pressed another couple of buttons, and then on came a song I recognized—Toto's _Africa. _"You couldn't possibly have a problem with this. No one hates this song. It's, like, a rule."

"This one's okay."

He pressed his hand to his heart in an exaggerated gesture of relief and cranked the volume. As he checked the mirrors, though, I felt my light-hearted mood sliding away. I hugged my upper arms as we pulled away from the curb, sunk into an ever-deepening well of panic. _What if she won't have anything to do with me? What if she hates me? What if she turns me away?  
_

"Sarah," Chuck said as we headed toward the I-5 and Toto sang about the rains down in Africa, "are you okay?"

It was the second time he'd asked me that today. I must look like a wreck. "Not really," I admitted, fixing my gaze on the clouds in the distance.

He was quiet for a moment. "Yeah, I wouldn't be either. Have you thought about what you might want to say to her?"

My voice sounded small. "I just want to tell her I'm sorry. Sorry I left her … for everything I missed … that I made the wrong decision. I should have stayed with her. If I had, my life would be so different now. But then again—" I turned to look at him—"if I'd stayed with her, I probably would have never met you."

"Life is weird like that," he agreed. "Like—did you ever read those Choose Your Own Adventure books when you were little? I used to love those. Every time you made a decision, you got to see how it turned out—and then go back and do things differently, if you wanted. After my dad left, I used to wonder what it would've been like if I told him I didn't want pancakes for dinner, I would've been totally happy with a frozen pizza. Would he have just pulled it out of the freezer, taken the night to think about things, and decided to stay? Or would he have left us anyhow, just a couple days later? There's no way to know."

Our situations weren't all that similar—Chuck's mom and dad had left him, whereas I'd been the one doing the leaving—but either way, we both hadn't seen our parents in quite some time. Not to mention, Chuck's superpower seemed to be empathy. "If you could see your mom and dad again, right now," I said, hoping I hadn't crossed a line, "what would you say?"

He blew out a long breath. "I'm not sure," he said, merging onto the I-5. "I think I'd want to listen, more than anything else. I'd want to know why they left, what was worth giving up on our family. I'd want to know everything they'd been doing since they were gone … and if they'd ever tried to check up on me and Ellie, just to see if we were okay. And I'd want them to know that, no matter what, I forgave them … because they were both good people. I know that down deep in my soul. And good people don't walk out on the ones they love without a solid reason."

The song had long-since segued into another, with a hard-driving beat and a woman's crooning voice. I sat quietly for a moment, listening, letting Chuck's words sink in. Then I reached out and took his free hand. The moment his fingers slipped through mine, I felt better; there was something about his touch that was just so reassuring.

"Can I tell you a story?" I asked, freeing my hand to turn the volume down just a little.

"You can tell me anything."

So I told him about what happened earlier today, when I'd stood outside Aneta's Café, lured by the scent of pierogi, and thought about Sundays with my mother. I told him what I'd remembered her saying … how it felt like my father's volatility was eradicating her, bit by bit … and how I would have done anything to stop that from happening.

"I'd forgotten all about that," I said, staring through the windshield. "How sad she would be the day after they fought, all hunched over, like an old woman. How she just seemed to be _less_, somehow. And how I saw my chance to keep her safe. I remember thinking if I left with my dad, maybe she'd come back to herself, piece by piece—like when I used to color a picture with crayon and then scribble it over with black. Did you ever do that? And then scratch away the black line by line, so you could see the picture underneath it? It was like that, like there was a shadow over my mom. I thought if I went away and took him with me, she'd could scratch away at the darkness, bit by bit. And then she'd have herself back again. I wouldn't be there to see it, but that wasn't the important part. The important part was that I would've saved her."

In my peripheral vision, I saw Chuck turn his head, as if checking if the coast was clear to change lanes—but then his hand came up and swiped at his eyes, and I realized he'd been crying. "See, I told you," he said, his voice thick. "You protect everyone, Sarah. Even when you were seven, you were already doing it. Tell that story to your mom, if you're worried she won't forgive you. I guarantee she'll understand."

I didn't know what to say … and I was sure he wouldn't want me to watch him cry, so I kept my gaze on the road. We drove for another hour, making small talk, and with each passing minute, my stomach clenched tighter. We merged left onto I-805, toward Chula Vista, then, twenty minutes later, took the exit for Palm Avenue. The grass on the side of the road was dead and brown, peppered with low, scrubby bushes, as we slowed for the light. It had been years since I'd driven this way, but on some visceral level, I remembered everything: the McDonald's off to the right, where we'd stop and get fries and chocolate milkshakes; the park where my mom would push me on the swings, and then we'd spread a blanket under the trees and picnic; the low brick wall that bordered the house on the corner as we took the turn onto Rene Court.

And there it was—the house I'd grown up in, sienna-colored stucco, cherubic fountain, and all. Chuck pulled up in front and parked, and for a minute all I could do was stare at it, picturing a younger version of myself, blond hair in pigtails, running around the small front yard in my Little Mermaid bikini as my mom chased me with the hose, threatening to drench me—"so maybe this time you'll grow a tail, just like Ariel!" I'd thought it was the funniest game in the world.

I had other, darker memories—perched on the stoop, my chin in my hands, watching the traffic go by as my parents argued inside; sitting in the front seat of my father's pickup truck as he backed down the driveway for the last time, watching my mom standing in the doorway, her expression heartbroken, her figure getting smaller and smaller as we drove away.

I shook myself, trying to focus on the here and now. "All right," I said to Chuck. "Let's go, before I freak out and run away."

He killed the engine, and, my heart pounding hard enough to shake my body, we went to ring the doorbell.

* * *

A/N: This chapter was a lot of fun to write, although it did make us hungry. (Mmmm…pierogi.) Happy Easter, to those of you who celebrate; happy Passover, for those who spent the past week figuring out how to host a virtual seder. Whether you're stuck at home with folks who are driving you 'round the bend or celebrating a holiday, this week has been a time for family—and so it seemed only appropriate that we give you a chapter where Sarah endeavors to track down her mom. This is the second-to-last chapter in what we're considering Act I of this story. Thank you for sticking with us for this long. We hope you'll come back to find out what happens next!

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	10. To Forgive is Divine

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 10:** **To Forgive is Divine  
**

I lifted my hand to ring the doorbell and observed, with a sort of dispassionate interest, that my fingers were shaking. As so often happened when I was under extreme duress, I felt as if I'd stepped out of my body and was standing next to myself, a silent watcher. Here stood a blond woman in jeans and a blue sweater that matched her eyes, her shoulders hunched as if bearing up under an invisible weight; next to her was a tall, dark-haired man whose mannerisms were unmistakably protective—his body was turned toward hers, his face stamped with concern. I watched the woman—_me_—press a trembling finger against the bell. It sang a familiar song: A high, short note, followed by a long, lower one.

The blond woman and the dark-haired man stood there, waiting to see what the bell would summon. I watched them, conscious of the way the blond woman's heart pounded and her breath came short. Her head tilted at the sound that followed the bell's ring—a small dog's excited bark, coming closer to the door.

The information I'd dug up on my mother hadn't mentioned a dog—a tiny, canine child-substitute. At least this one sounded friendly.

Then a voice came from inside the house, calming the dog—"Iris, hush. Be nice. Calm down, would you?"—and I slipped back into my body, filling my skin as if I'd never left. It was _my _heart that was pounding, my breath that stuttered and skipped, failing to fill my lungs. And the voice on the other side of the door—it belonged to my mother.

I felt frozen, as if I were encased in ice. "Chuck," I said, feeling as if I might pass out, "I don't think I can do this."

He opened his mouth, doubtless to say something reassuring. But he never got the chance, because the knob turned, the door swung open, and on the other side stood my mother.

During the space of one of my too-fast heartbeats, we just gaped at each other. She was smaller than I remembered, maybe only coming up to my chin, with her blond hair starting to silver and lines around the blue eyes that looked so much like mine. But her eyes themselves—those were still the same, wide and bright and starting to glaze with tears as they drank me in.

"Samana," she said, and it wasn't a question. "Oh, my baby girl. You've come home."

She took two steps forward and flung her arms around me. I looked over at Chuck, helpless, but all he did was smile—like this was perfectly normal, like I should know what to do. When I still looked perplexed, he wrapped his arms around himself, miming a hug.

Since my ability to make decisions seemed to have gone on hiatus, I had to trust his judgment. I lifted my own arms—slowly, since I still had the strange, dissociative feeling that they belonged to someone else—and wrapped them around her. She smelled just the same, like jasmine perfume and the memory of a time when I felt safe. And then, totally without warning, the floodgates opened and I started to cry.

The dog bounced around our feet, giving little alarmed yips. Dimly, I was aware of Chuck kneeling to pet it, making small interrogative sounds the way one does with a strange animal with which one hopes to ingratiate oneself. I couldn't spare much attention for the dog, though—because hugging me tight, rubbing my back as I sobbed, telling me how much she'd missed me and that everything would be okay now, was my _mother.  
_

She finally pulled away and took both my hands in hers, looking up into my eyes. "Where _were _you?" she said, as if I'd been playing a particularly over-zealous game of hide-and-seek. Her tone sounded so familiar—like she was scolding me once again—that I burst into a teary kind of laughter. It was possible, I thought with the sane part of my mind, that I was hysterical.

"I'm sorry," I told her. It seemed to be all I could say, because I said it again and again. "I'm sorry, Mama. I'm so, so sorry."

"Never mind about that now." She dropped one of my hands but kept firm hold of the other, ushering me over the threshold and into the house that used to be mine, too. How was it possible that, after all these years, it could still smell the same—like Pledge floor polish and lemon verbena candles, with an undercurrent of fir from the tree that stood in the corner, strung with multicolor lights and hung with ornaments just like it had been throughout my childhood? The living room was furnished differently—there was a green rag rug on the hardwood floor, and a matching couch and wine-red loveseat flanked a wood-and-iron coffee table, as if she'd decorated just for Christmas—but the scent was exactly the same.

My mother was chattering like a proverbial magpie, the way she always had when she was nervous. "Come in, come in. Sit down. Do you want something to drink? And who's your friend, Sam?"

I'd forgotten all about Chuck, who was trailing in behind us, the dog weaving in and out of his legs. Clearly, they'd made friends while I was having my nervous breakdown. "This is Chuck, Mama," I said, and she stepped forward, taking his hand in her small one.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, her mouth curving upward in a trembling smile. "I'm Emma; Emma Wozniak. Thank you so much for bringing my Samana home."

"Oh," he said, looking abashed. "It wasn't like that. This was all her decision. But it's an honor to meet you, too, Emma."

My mom let go of his hand and just stood there, her eyes fixed on my face, as if she'd forgotten all about the drinks she'd offered, or anything else but making sure I wasn't an illusion. "How," she said, staring at me. "When—"

"It's a long story. But first I owe you a huge apology, Mama. I should never have left you the way I did. I was wrong and I wouldn't blame you if you never forgave me—"

She lifted her palm, stopping me mid-sentence. "Enough of that. There's nothing to forgive. You're home, and that's all that matters."

"But there is," I insisted. "I should've stayed with you. All you ever wanted was to take care of me. And I left you behind."

Her smile wobbled a bit. "Samana. Baby. You were just a child. Don't you think like that for one second. Have you been walking around all these years thinking I blamed you for your father's actions? You were only seven years old, baby girl. How could I possibly think you were responsible for that man's choices?"

Tears streamed down my face. "I just wanted to keep you safe. He was so _mean _to you. He yelled at you all the time. I remember how you used to try to avoid him when he was in one of his moods, as if you could make yourself smaller, quieter, so he wouldn't notice you were there. He never yelled at _me _that way. I thought if I left … if I went with him … then you could turn up your music as loud as you wanted and dance around the kitchen as much as you liked and maybe you'd find some peace."

The corners of my mother's mouth turned down and she started to cry in earnest. "Sweetheart. My little jewel. How could you think I'd ever be able to dance in the kitchen again, without you?"

We sank down onto her little red couch together, her arms around me as she rocked me back and forth. In my peripheral vision, I saw Chuck sit down on the loveseat. The dog—some kind of miniature poodle mix—jumped into his lap, and Chuck ducked his head as he petted it, trying his best to give us a semblance of privacy.

"So," my mother said at last, sitting back and wiping the tears from her face with a tissue from the box on the coffee table, "tell me everything. Where've you been all these years?"

I reached for a tissue and blew my nose—hardly elegant, but this was my mother, after all. "I should have listened to you, Mama. I thought Dad wanted to be with me because—" I caught my lower lip between my teeth. Some things were hard to say, even if you'd admitted them to yourself. Saying them out loud made them real. "I thought he loved me—and I guess he did … in his own way," I said at last, my voice small. "But really, he just wanted a pretty blond girl, an accomplice, to help with some of his cons. He used me. And everything he asked, I did—his little apprentice. I thought if I learned enough, if I helped him long enough, then maybe he would finally …"

My voice trailed off, and I let it. Sympathy and rage were vying for position on my mother's face, and if I told her any more, I knew which one would win. "He got greedy, and he got caught," I said, which summed things up accurately enough. "But when he got caught, so did I. I was seventeen, old enough to be tried as an adult. And this time around, his scheme was big enough to get the CIA involved. The Director gave me a choice—join the Agency and go free, or say no and go to jail." I shrugged. "It wasn't much of a choice."

Her mouth fell open. "You're a … CIA agent?"

"I—"

"Hold on." She held up a finger, her face darkening. "Did you say you were seventeen? That can't be legal."

"It wasn't. But I didn't know any better." I tried to sound accepting, like it was all water under the proverbial bridge … but saying it aloud—first to Chuck, then to my mother—had forced me to recognize Graham's behavior for what it really was: Abuse. He'd used me, just like my dad ... and I'd been so desperate for their approval, I hadn't been willing to see it.

"Oh, honey. Baby girl. I'm so sorry." From the empathic look on my mother's face, I could see she understood. I hated for her to feel pity for me … because by extension, that would mean that she'd somehow failed me. And she hadn't. I'd failed myself—and her.

"I go by Sarah Walker now," I said, in an effort to divert the conversation away from Dad and Graham's Machiavellian ways. "That's why you couldn't find me. And Dad—he's still in jail. He's been there since that day."

"A CIA agent," she said again. The words sounded as foreign in her mouth as if I'd told her I was an octopus wrangler or a tap-dancing cowgirl. "And does that make you happy? Fulfilled? Is it safe?"

I wanted to tell her that I'd never been happier in my life—that I did find my job fulfilling and everything I'd ever imagined it would be—but I couldn't lie. "Well, I'm good at it," I said. "And when I started, I felt like I had a purpose—that I could make a difference. But happy … I'm not so sure anymore. Until recently, it never occurred to me to ask myself that question."

She was silent for a moment, considering this. "What changed?"

I didn't know how to phrase this, not with Chuck still in the room. So I just glanced in his direction, a blush stealing over my cheeks. When I looked back at my mom, she was giving me a knowing look … the look she'd always given me whenever I tried to get away with something under her nose … but she didn't say a word about it. "And is it safe?" she prompted again.

My job _wasn't _safe—but I certainly wasn't going to tell her that. "I'm good at what I do," I temporized. "And I've mostly been undercover. What I've done … I can't tell you the specifics. But I'm not a bad person, Mama, I promise."

She sniffled, swallowing hard. "Of course you're not." She sounded incredulous, like such a thing was beyond the wildest reaches of her imagination. "You asked for my forgiveness, Sam, but I need to ask for yours as well. I've felt so guilty all these years."

From the heartbroken look on her face, I knew she was telling the truth—but her words made no sense. "My forgiveness? Why?"

"For letting you go." The words burst from her, like water through a broken levee. "I should've stopped him from taking you. I knew what kind of man he was. But I didn't. I thought it was what you wanted … and some small, petty part of me resented you for choosing him. But you were just a child. No matter what your reasoning was—and knowing you, I should've realized you left out of a desire to protect me—I shouldn't have let you go." She hiccupped through her tears. "I tried to find you so many times, but I never could. It was like you'd vanished—like he snuck you through some interdimensional portal. You were just … gone. And I knew I'd failed you."

"You could never fail me, Mama." I reached over to the coffee table for tissues and handed some to her. "How could you think that? And you couldn't have found us. We used different names everywhere we went. We paid for everything in cash and never stayed long. One reason it was so easy for me to become Sarah Walker is that I haven't been Samana Wozniak since Dad and I backed out of this driveway for the last time."

"Still," she insisted, clutching the tissues in her fist. "I let you go. I never thought it would be forever. But every phone number he gave me … every address … it was a dead end. I hired private detectives. I never gave up on you. But no matter what I did, it was fruitless." Her eyes streamed with tears. "I hoped you were happy, that he was taking good care of you. But I knew the kind of man he was, and I knew better. Hearing what you've told me today confirms it. Please … I know I have no right to ask … but please say you forgive me."

Cuddled up on Chuck's lap, the dog whined, her tail wagging uncertainly. She looked like she wished she could do something to help, but wasn't sure what—and honestly, I felt the same.

"Of course I forgive you," I said, sharing a bewildered glance with Chuck. "It never occurred to me that there was anything to forgive. I drove here terrified that you wouldn't forgive _me_. Whatever happened—it's all my fault, and Dad's. Please don't ever blame yourself."

My mom offered me a tearful smile. "I'll try not to. And it does mean the world to me that you've come home. I can only imagine that this young man has something to do with it."

She looked over at Chuck, her eyes widening as she saw the dog snuggled in his lap. "Wow," my mother said, surprise clear in her voice. "Iris has never done that before. She doesn't take to strangers, much less men. I think she must've been abused before I adopted her. I've never seen her warm to anyone like that." She gave Chuck an appraising glance. "My daughter has good taste, Chuck. You must be a special person indeed, if Iris trusts you."

It was Chuck's turn to blush.

My mother glanced between the two of us … then out through the white lace curtains at the darkening sky. "Oh my goodness. Look at that—it's past dinnertime. Are you two hungry?"

At the thought of eating my mom's cooking again, my stomach growled. Chuck gave me an amused look, then covered for me. "I don't know about Sarah, but I definitely am."

My mom's eyebrows rose, and she suppressed a laugh with the back of her hand. "I have a sneaking suspicion Sam is, too. How long was the drive to get here?"

"A couple of hours. I—we—live in Burbank," I said.

She bit her lip. "All this time, you've been right down the road?"

"No." I hated the idea of hurting her—of her thinking that I'd been two hours away for years and never reached out. "Dad and I—we were constantly on the move. And once I joined the CIA, I did my training at Camp Peary, in Virginia … then spent most of my time traveling on missions all over the world. I've only been back in California for less than a week."

"Ah," my mother said, brightening. "Well, regardless—it's getting late. I hope you two weren't thinking of driving back to Burbank tonight?"

I shook my head. "We were planning on getting a hotel."

She patted my hand in mock horror, the way she used to do when I suggested putting margarine instead of butter on our popcorn. "Nonsense. I won't hear of it. I've got Samana's old room and the guest room here … or you two could share a room, if you prefer. But I've only just found you again; I won't have you driving back tonight. Please stay with me. It would make me so happy."

At a loss, I looked over at Chuck, expecting to see reluctance on his face—but he was grinning, the same incandescent smile I'd seen when we'd driven home from the Buy More. "If it's all right with Sarah, it's fine with me," he said … and I could see that it was.

"Of course we'll stay," I said at last, even though the thought of sleeping in my childhood bedroom, with Chuck down the hall, felt positively surreal.

My mother clapped her hands like a little girl, and Chuck got to his feet, gently displacing the dog—who promptly leapt into my mom's lap. "I'll just get our bags," he said, and headed out to the car.

The moment the door closed behind him, my mother turned to me. "I like him," she said in a whisper, as if confiding a state secret. "Very much."

"I like him too," I said, and found that I was smiling—a ridiculous, over-the-moon-with-happiness smile that probably mirrored Chuck's incandescent grin. "He makes me better, just like you said you wanted for me."

Her eyebrows quirked upward. "What do you mean?"

"Right before I left. The last time we made pierogi." I leaned forward, as if I could will her to remember. "You said you wanted someone who accepted me for who I was, but would challenge me, too … to be the best possible version of myself."

"I can't believe you remember that." She pressed my hand in hers.

"Of course I do. We made blueberry pierogi. We listened to Joni Mitchell. And … you cried." Tears filled my eyes again, and I fought not to let them fall. "I do remember, Mama. I remember everything."

"Do you remember that?" She gestured at the Christmas tree in the corner, festooned with red, blue, and green bulbs that glowed in the lamplight. The tree looked identical to the ones we used to have when I was a child, right down to …

I peered closer, and my mouth dropped open. "Mama," I said, pointing at the tree, "is that—are they—"

Her hand found mine again. "Those are your ornaments, baby girl, the ones we gave you every year as a gift. I saved all of them … and I put them on the tree every year. I suppose it was my way of feeling that you were still with me—that we were still together. In fact—" her voice caught, and she looked down as if embarrassed—"I've bought an ornament for you every Christmas we've been apart. They're all hanging on the tree now … including the one I got for you this year. It's silly, I know. But it—it was all I had."

"It's not silly." God, I hadn't cried this much since I was small. "I think it's beautiful. And since we're staying for dinner, can I make a special request?"

She blinked up at me, her lips quirking. "What would that be?"

Glancing from the tree to my mom, Iris cuddled in her lap—and Chuck, coming through the front door with our bags—I gave her a guileless smile. "Can we make pierogi?"

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck took our bags down the hall, and then we all made potato, mushroom, and cheddar pierogi together. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been so happy. Part of me worried that maybe this wasn't real, that I was still lying in my bed in Echo Park. Making pierogi in the kitchen of my old house with my mother and Chuck hardly seemed any more surreal than seeing Graham sitting cross-legged atop his desk, shaking a Magic 8 Ball the size of a globe.

My mom put on the folk music she loved and hummed along as she chopped veggies for a salad and Chuck set the table. I poured wine for the three of us, Iris nosing the floor at our feet in the hope of spills. At last we settled down in the dining room and my mother said a quick grace, giving thanks for bringing us together again, before we dug into our food.

The pierogi were just how I'd remembered them—buttery and crisp at the edges, the insides a mélange of savory, creamy flavors. Replete with joy, I ate as slowly as possible, a hundred memories in each bite.

"So," my mother said, drawing a deep breath and turning to Chuck, "tell me about all yourself. How long have you two been together?"

Chuck's eyes widened, and belatedly, I realized that in asking him to come with me to meet my mother, I'd also asked him to Meet My Mother, as in 'the woman I may or may not be dating has just introduced me to one of her parents, who has put me on the spot.' Dating was new territory for me, but even I knew that parent-meeting was a significant event, generally reserved for serious relationships. Well, nothing about the two of us thus far had gone typically; why should this be any different?

"We, um, just met about a week ago," I said, when it was clear Chuck wasn't going to speak—most likely out of fear of saying the wrong thing.

"Really?" My mother looked quizzical as Chuck speared a lettuce leaf, his face set in what was either resignation or relief. "My mistake. I thought that since you said—well, what you said about him, you two had been together for a while."

Chuck's gaze shot to me, as if he was eminently curious about what it was that I'd said when he'd been getting our bags—but before he could say a word, my mother, ever the peacemaker, intervened. "Please, tell me more about yourself. Where are you from? And what do you do?"

Chuck answered her questions as best he could, but I could see him struggling with how much to reveal. I was so sick of lies and half-truths. One day perhaps I would leave the CIA and be free of them for good. Here at the dinner table, with my mom and Chuck, sipping wine and eating pierogi with the lit Christmas tree visible in the background, it seemed like such a thing might be possible. Maybe I would become a martial arts instructor … or a personal trainer … or even a teacher. I liked the idea of finding a way to give back to the world.

"So," my mother said, interrupting my reverie, "are you close to your family, Chuck?"

Chuck hesitated. "I'm very close to my sister," he said finally. "We live together. But we—well, both of our parents left when we were younger. Ellie—that's my sister—practically raised me."

He'd spoken in a matter-of-fact tone, but my mother's eyes welled up with tears nonetheless. "So you've been an orphan most of your life, like my Sam. I can understand what drew you to each other." She reached over and patted my hand, fighting to maintain her composure. "I wish things had been different for both of you. But tonight isn't the time for regret or looking back. Tonight we're celebrating. Sam, honey, would you mind refilling our glasses?"

"No problem, Mama." I stood and headed back into the kitchen, keeping one ear on their conversation. Knowing my mom, she'd seize this opportunity—which, come to think of it, she'd created—to talk to Chuck alone.

Sure enough, as soon as I crossed the threshold, I heard her say, "I hope I didn't embarrass you earlier, Chuck—when I mentioned that I thought you and Sarah had known each other for longer than just a few days. There's just something about the two of you … you seem so comfortable around each other. It's a pleasure to see."

Now _I _was embarrassed. What if Chuck didn't feel the same way? The bottle of wine in my hand, I paused, waiting to hear how he replied.

He didn't disappoint. "I would never be embarrassed about being with Sarah, Mrs. Wozniak. It's my privilege. And even though we've only known each other for a little while, I can tell there's something incredibly special about your daughter. I'll stick around as long as she'll have me."

Elation fizzed through me, piggybacking on the low-level buzz of the wine. I could have spoken these words myself, but in reverse. It was wonderful to know Chuck felt the same.

From my position just out of their line of sight, I could see a smile break over my mother's face. "I can see why Sam likes you. Speaking of which—Sam? Did you get lost in there?"

Taking my cue, I stepped back into the dining room and topped off both of their glasses, then my own. We polished off the pierogi, salad, and wine, Chuck telling wild, endearing stories about life at the Buy More all the while … and then my mom excused herself. I heard rustling in the kitchen, doors opening and closing. A few moments later, she reappeared with a store-bought peach pie and a gallon of Breyers vanilla. She set them down on the dining room table, looking pleased.

My mouth fell open and stayed that way. When I was growing up, this had been my favorite dessert. "But—" I said, at a loss for words, "how did you …"

"I can't explain it." She gave me a shy smile. "Earlier this week, I was at the grocery store, and I just … I saw the pie and thought of you. And I couldn't have pie without ice cream, so I bought them both. Every time I thought about eating them, it made me too sad—but I couldn't bear to throw them out, either. I never dreamed—well, I guess I bought them for you, baby girl. I hope you still like peach pie."

The lump in my throat was almost too big to speak around, but I managed. "Yes, Mama … I still love it."

We ate as much pie and ice cream as we could, then drank coffee. By the time we were done, it was almost ten-thirty, and I was exhausted.

"You and Chuck get some sleep," my mother said as I fought to suppress a yawn. "I'll clean up here."

"Thanks, Mama." I gave her a hug good night—as did Chuck, at her insistence—and he and I went down the hall, toward the bedrooms.

With every step we took, I felt more nervous. What was he expecting? I'd never shared a bed with a guy, much less anything more. I'd told him I wasn't very experienced, but hearing something like that and experiencing it first-hand were different things. What if I disappointed him?

I shouldn't have worried. With what I was coming to realize were his typical concern for my feelings, he'd put his bag in the guest room and mine in my old bedroom—which was easy enough to identify because, to my shock, my mother hadn't changed a thing. Everything was just how I'd left it—my white quilt with the lace fringes, my Cabbage Patch Kids propped against the pillows, my E.T. poster on the wall above my little wooden desk … even my Strawberry Shortcake and Blueberry Muffin dolls in the corner, next to an iridescent herd of My Little Ponies.

Bracing my hand on the doorway, I just stared. "She didn't change anything," I said, more to myself than Chuck. "All this time, she was waiting for me to come home."

"She loves you." Chuck was standing behind me, looking at the Shrine to Samana my mother had preserved. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me close, and I relaxed against him, grateful for his support. "I knew she wouldn't be angry at you, Sarah. How could anyone stay mad at you for long? I know I couldn't."

"Thank you," I whispered, my eyes resting on the litter of Pound Puppies clustered on the fleecy blue blanket at the foot of my bed, just as they'd been the morning I'd left for what I thought would be forever. My dad hadn't let me take them. He'd promised to buy me more … but instead he'd gotten me a creepy bear which introduced itself over and over in an awful, saccharine voice: "Hello, I'm Teddy Ruxpin. Can you and I be friends?"

I'd hated Teddy Ruxpin. I'd wanted my mother. And I'd missed my Pound Puppies, who I'd named and snuggled with each night.

"Thank you for coming with me," I said to Chuck, meaning every word. "I couldn't have done this without you."

He dropped a kiss on the top of my bed and loosened his arms, backing away. "It was my honor. Good night, Sarah. I'll see you in the morning."

I watched him walk down the hallway, feeling half-relieved and half-disappointed. What would I have said if he'd asked to stay with me?

But he hadn't, and I reminded myself that that was a good thing. As I changed into my yoga pants and tank top and brushed my teeth in the bathroom I hadn't used for fifteen years, I told myself that it would be completely inappropriate to make out with Chuck in my childhood bedroom, with my mom down the hall … wouldn't it?

When I left the bathroom, Chuck's door was closed. I stood, looking at it for a second, then walked into my room and shut the door behind me. _Go to sleep, _I told myself, dislodging the Cabbage Patch Kids and stretching out in the twin bed that seemed impossibly small—but sleep wouldn't come. The room was too much _itself. _My mom still used the same Tide detergent she had when I was small, smelling of oceans and salty summer air; she must've laundered my bed linens from time to time, for guests or in anticipation of a daughter who never came. The light from passing cars played across the ceiling in the same way, stretching into long, pulled-taffy-thin shadows before crumpling into the corners and vanishing. I could see the ghost of seven-year-old Samana kneeling next to the My Little Ponies, combing their silky, rainbow-colored manes and pretending not to hear her parents arguing down the hall.

I shut my eyes—and just as quickly opened them again. The home movies that played out behind my closed eyelids were no better … but with my eyes open, I took in the humped shape of my old dresser, which I used to think transformed into an evil creature at night. I remembered my dad coming in and sprinkling it with imaginary "rid-a-monster" dust, telling me that would make the creature sleep forever. "Okay, Daddy," ghost-Sam had said, pulling the covers up to her chin, her blond hair braided neatly for the night and fastened with aqua scrunchies. "Night-night."

The dresser-creature had slept all night, because he'd said it would. I'd had such faith in him. I'd believed everything he said.

I'd been such a fool.

Being alone with my own thoughts was too painful. I had to get out of here.

I threw the covers back and got up, in search of respite. I didn't let myself think about where I was going, just let my feet carry me where they would.

They took me straight to Chuck's door.

My hand on the knob, I paused for an instant. Then I opened the door and stepped through. The room was dark, and smelled of detergent and a faint hint of Chuck's cologne. I could hear him breathing, slow and even.

Before I could lose my nerve, I crossed to the bed and slid in next to him. He was asleep on his back, one hand behind his head and the other open at his side, and he didn't wake when the mattress gave under my weight … but his free arm curved around me as if he'd expected to find me there, holding me tight.

I fell asleep like that, warm against his body, feeling safe and loved.

OoOoOoOoO

The sun spilled through the gap between the bluebird-patterned curtains of the guest room, falling warm across my face and waking me. For one panicked instant, I had no idea where I was. Then it all came rushing back, and I felt like I'd tumbled five flights in an unmoored elevator. Finding my mom. Trying and failing to sleep in my childhood bedroom. And waking in the guest room next to Chuck, who was curled around me, the big spoon to my small one. My hand lay on my hip and his rested on top of it, his fingers entwined with mine. As far as I could tell, he was still asleep.

What the hell was I supposed to do now? Should I try to disentangle myself and sneak back to my room? And if I didn't, what was the alternative—admit that the big, bad CIA agent had gotten so spooked by a room full of Pound Puppies and Strawberry Shortcake dolls that she'd crept into his bed in the middle of the night, uninvited? He wasn't even officially my boyfriend. And even if he was, was this the sort of thing that was acceptable to do? I had no idea, and there was no one to ask.

Behind me, I heard Chuck stir—and then felt his body tense as he came to consciousness and realized I was there. I'd run out of time … and so I did the only thing I could think of, the thing I wanted to do. I tightened my grip on his hand, letting him know I was awake … and then let go and traced his fingers with mine, feeling him shiver at my touch.

"Sarah?" he said, his voice husky. "I'd ask what you're doing here, but I feel like that would be looking a gift horse in the mouth."

Leave it to Chuck to defuse a situation that could've been horribly awkward. Smiling, I turned onto my back—and froze. His face was inches away, his hair adorably mussed and his dark eyes sleepy.

I thought of a thousand things to say—_I shouldn't be here. I'm sorry I invaded your space. This is terrible timing—_but instead I surged upward and kissed him. He made a surprised sound low in his throat, and then his hands were in my hair and he was kissing me back, with as much fervor as he had in Burbank, when he'd told me I was in danger of being debauched against a door. I knotted my fingers in his T-shirt, and then we were kneeling in the middle of the bed, the covers a tangled pool around us, his mouth hot on my neck and my hands roving over the warmth of his body beneath his shirt. I trembled as his fingers made their way beneath my tank top, his touch questioning—but not from fear. I trusted Chuck. He would never hurt me.

"Sarah?" he said, pulling back just enough to look at me. "Are you okay?"

I tugged his shirt off in response, wanting to feel his skin against mine. It fell to the floor, and then he was on top of me, bearing me down onto the bed. His body blocked out the light from the windows, sheltering me.

Desperate to get closer to him, I pulled off my tank top and heard his sharp intake of breath. I'd never let a guy see me half-naked before, not even a mark … but as Chuck's hands spanned my rib cage, then drifted upward, I didn't feel self-conscious. I just wanted more.

Winding my fingers through his curls, I kissed him again, wrapping my legs around his hips. He moved against me, making small, hungry sounds. Before, we'd been in a courtyard where anyone could have seen us; now we were in a bed, in a room with a closed door. There was nothing to stop us from taking this as far as we wanted…

… except the knock that sounded on the guest room door, jolting us apart as if we'd been shocked. Chuck rolled off me, trying to catch his breath. I lay there, my nerve endings on fire. How the hell had that gone so far, so fast?

"Samana, honey?" my mother said, sounding both chipper and amused. "Are you in there? Breakfast is ready. Come and get it while it's hot."

A slow flush heated my cheeks. Apparently it was contagious, because Chuck's face reddened too. "Oh, my God," he mouthed, tugging his clothes into order as if my mom had X-Ray vision.

I pulled my tank top back on, not quite able to look him in the eye. "Coming," I said … and thought of the double entendre _that _implied and blushed all over again.

"Great. See you soon." A moment later, her footsteps retreated.

"Whew," Chuck said, smoothing my hair. "That was … um …"

"I'm sorry." I didn't seem to know where to look. Definitely not at him. "I shouldn't have climbed into your bed like that. I know you didn't ask for it and—"

He laid a finger across my lips, silencing me. "Believe me, there's no need to apologize. This is the best way I've ever woken up in my life."

A slow smile spread across my face. "Really?"

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to mine. "Definitely."

"Well, then." Feeling much better, I got to my feet. "To be continued."

I retreated to my room to get dressed, still breathless. If my mom hadn't knocked, how far would we have gone? How far had I _wanted _to go?

I knew the answer to that question all too well. As eager as I was to spend more time with my mother, I couldn't wait to get back to Burbank and be alone with Chuck … in an apartment I didn't share with anyone else, with a bedroom door that locked. And it seemed like Chuck had felt the same.

Still, I couldn't help but feel embarrassed as I made my way down the hall for breakfast. This was _not _the impression I'd wanted to leave my mother with after fifteen years: Sarah Walker, wanton woman. I couldn't meet her gaze, for fear of what I'd see … but when she handed me a cup of coffee and I dared to look her in the eye, she was smiling.

"You grew up to be so beautiful, Samana," she said. "Inside and out. I'm so proud of you." And she hugged me, tightly enough that my coffee almost sloshed over the edge of the mug.

We sat down to breakfast—scrambled eggs, bacon with the edges crisped—just the way I'd always liked it as a kid—and buttered toast. None of us talked much, beyond "pass the bacon please" and "more coffee?" but the silence was a peaceful one, so thick with happiness, I felt as if I could've reached out and touched it. I felt acutely aware of Chuck's presence, like he was broadcasting some kind of radar signal only I could hear. When his fingers brushed mine as he handed me a slice of toast, I felt a miniature shock wave travel through me … and when I met his eyes, I was sure he felt it too.

We cleared the dishes away, and I gave my mom my contact information while Chuck went to pack. My bag was already zipped and ready to go, sitting by the front door.

"You'll come back, won't you?" my mother said, her eyes following mine to the blue roller bag. "Or I could come and see you."

"Of course I'll come back." I felt a pang that she'd even have to ask. "I wish we could stay longer this time, but we have to get back for work."

"You could join us for Christmas, though." Chuck stood at the entrance to the hallway, regarding us. "It's nothing fancy, just me, my sister, and her boyfriend—and Sarah, of course—but we'd be happy to have you."

A radiant smile lit my mother's eyes. "I'd love that," she said.

"Then it's settled … if it's all right with Sarah." His eyes found mine.

"It's more than all right." If we hadn't been in my mother's presence, I would've thrown my arms around him. "It's perfect."

OoOoOoOoO

The drive home was … fraught, to say the least. The atmosphere of happiness that had suffused the kitchen had followed us into the car, but now it was laced with a heady undercurrent of tension. This time, I drove. We held hands the whole way, and once, he leaned over, trailing a line of incendiary kisses down my neck to my collarbone—the first time that he'd been the one to kiss _me._ Experienced getaway driver or not, I'd been afraid I might wreck the car.

By the time we pulled up to Echo Park, I could think of nothing but getting into my apartment and finishing what we'd started. Chuck grabbed his bag, I grabbed mine, and we headed into the courtyard, with me slightly behind him. "Thank God we're finally—" he began … and then he stopped so suddenly I almost ran into him. Stopped talking, moving, everything. I wasn't sure he was still breathing.

"Hey there, stranger." It was a sultry, feminine voice—but not one I recognized.

Chuck definitely hadn't been breathing, because now he started up again … the shallow breaths of someone who was shocked, furious, or both. Steadying myself, I stood on tiptoes to peer over his shoulder.

The world's sexiest librarian had found her way to Echo Park, complete with horn-rimmed glasses, chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail, and cardigan over a low-dipping black tank top. Her pink-glossed lips curved into a possessive facsimile of a smile when she saw me.

Chuck squared his shoulders, as if bracing for a fight. "What are you doing here, Jill?" he said.

* * *

A/N: This more or less finishes off the first act. The story will start to move at a faster pace going forward.

A/N #2: Between Sarah's reunion with her mom, her hot-and-heavy encounter with Chuck, and Jill's unexpected arrival on the scene, this chapter was a lot of fun to write! Poor Chuck and Sarah. Just when things seem to be going well, something always goes horribly wrong … be it a bomb, the Intersect, or an evil ex-girlfriend with her own agenda…

Well, we're off to eat peach pie and drink coffee. As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	11. Slowly, And Then All At Once

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 11:** **Slowly, And Then All At Once  
**

"Hey there, stranger."

_What the …?  
_

"What are you doing here, Jill?"

_Oh, hell no…!  
_

So many emotions ricocheted through my body, I hardly had time to recognize them all.

I'd just spent the last twenty-four hours reuniting with my long-lost mother, who I hadn't seen in fifteen years. I'd watched her fall in love—and not byherself—with a guy who'd put his entire life on hold at a moment's notice to help me facilitate our reunion. And this morning—God … if it hadn't been for our little 'mother interruptus' moment, I was sure what would've happened ... and for the first time in my life, the idea filled me with giddy excitement rather than dread. I was ready to give myself completely … mind, body, and soul … to this extraordinary man. I could still taste his lips, feel his hands all over my body—like the touch of some kind of erotic ghost, playing havoc with my senses.

The ride back home had been the most pleasurable and torturous experience of my life. The undercurrent of electricity in that small, confined space had made me delirious with the expectation of what was to come. If it wasn't for my reluctance to endanger our lives and Chuck's heroic restraint, I'd have happily crashed our car into oblivion and loved every second of it. We'd been about two seconds away from making good on my promise of 'to be continued' … and now this?

Someone out there must truly hate me.

As I followed Chuck further into the courtyard, I took a moment to study Jill—her posture, mannerisms, and micro-behaviors, the small, telltale signs that people unwittingly reveal. As someone who'd been trained in the art of seduction, I found it easy—and somewhat infuriating—to decipher her true intentions. She sat on the edge of the fountain, her bare legs provocatively crossed and angled to reveal as much skin as possible through the slit in her black pencil skirt. The coy smile that played across her face spoke volumes.

Then I stepped out from behind Chuck and she got a good look at _all _of me.

Jill's change in demeanor was almost undetectable—the narrowing of her eyes, the slight dilation of her pupils, a twitch in the corner of her targeted smile. The whole thing seemed way too … practiced—like seeing someone with the hallmarks of my own training.

Alarm bells sounded in my head. Something felt … off.

Sure, I was filled with green envy—a responsive territorial possessiveness towards Chuck that I hadn't yet experienced—even with Tiffany. After all, he and Jill had history—had been in a real relationship for years—whereas he and I'd just met and I still wasn't sure exactly what we were. It was only natural for me to feel jealous.

No … this was something different—but before I could wrap my mind around that thought, Jill broke the silent stalemate.

"Who's your friend, Chuck," she said. There was a nasty intonation to 'friend,' as if she'd prefer to use a far less complimentary term.

That was the million-dollar question, wasn't it? Who was I in Chuck's mind?

I turned to look at him, expecting to see confusion, indecision, something akin to my own swirling emotions. Instead, the hardness of his expression, the defensive posture of his arms crossed across his chest, the furrowing of his brow … they all melted away in an instant. My breath hitched when I saw this metamorphosis. Gone was the pain and heartache that Jill's arrival had spurred, replaced with the most loving smile I'd ever seen. His shoulders relaxed, and a sparkle lit his eyes as he turned back to address her question.

"This is Sarah … my girlfriend."

Unadulterated joy suffused every molecule in my body—not just from the words themselves, but from the pride that laced his declaration and the warmth in his voice as he made it. I felt like high-stepping around the fountain, thrusting my fists in the air as I did a ridiculous happy dance. It was insane what this guy was doing to me.

Looking back at Jill, I could see he was having quite the opposite effect on her. "Girlfriend?" she asked, her tone incredulous.

To my delight, Chuck completely ignored her. "What are you doing here, Jill?" he repeated, sounding as if his patience was starting to wear thin.

She got to her feet, advancing on him like an alpha predator—if that predator also happened to be a succubus. "I came to see you, Chuck," she said, each syllable dripping with honey. "I just moved to town and thought you might like to catch up on old times."

"Ah … old times," Chuck said, a wistful expression overtaking his face as he looked out towards the middle distance. This was soon followed by a look of surprise, as if he'd just thought of a funny story. "Oh, oh!" he exclaimed. "Remember that one time when I walked in on you and Bryce with your feet in the air as he plowed you into my mattress? Yeah … those were the days. Good times! I still have the soundtrack stuck in my head."

Jill froze, taken aback. "Chuck … I can explain. If we can just go somewhere—I can tell you my side of the story."

She had to be kidding. How many sides of the story could there be? That wasn't the sort of betrayal and humiliation you could explain away. And yet she had the gall to come here … and say this? The woman must have ovaries of steel … or a hidden agenda.

"I'm standing right here," Chuck said, readjusting the strap of the overnight bag that was still slung across his shoulder. "Go ahead and explain. I can't _wait_ to hear this."

"Maybe someplace … more … private?" Her voice dropped to a whisper.

Jesus Christ. Could she be any more obvious? My feet itched with the overwhelming urge to drop-kick her … hard. Maybe over the fence that surrounded Echo Park—and out into traffic.

Chuck just shook his head, and my heart soared. At least he wasn't falling for her bullshit. "Jill … I don't keep things from Sarah. Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of her."

He sounded so confident, and my stomach tensed, tight with guilt. I still hadn't told him about the surveillance equipment or the theft of his software. Sure, I'd taken steps to mitigate those intrusions … but that wasn't the same thing as telling Chuck the truth. What if I didn't know how to be in an honest, healthy relationship? What if all I wound up doing was hurting him like Bryce and Jill had?

I had to tell myself it wasn't the same at all. That Bryce and Jill had conspired to betray him, whereas I'd just committed a lie of omission. Still … I felt unworthy of his trust.

I needed to tell him the truth, as soon as we wrangled our way free of the Pencil Skirt Succubus. He deserved to know.

Jill's eyes darted to me, and I could have sworn I saw a glint of a deeper cunning in their depths. Then she looked at Chuck, and the devious expression vanished, sugarcoated by a doe-eyed, pleading look that was one manipulative blink away from tears. "But, Chuck…" she began, only to be cut short as a shrill voice sounded from the courtyard's gate behind us.

"What the fuck are you doing here!?" Ellie spat.

For an awful moment, I thought she was talking to me. But no—as she strode up to us and set down the grocery bags she was carrying, the furious look on her face was all for Chuck's stalker ex.

"Hey, sis," Chuck said, sounding suddenly cheery. "You remember Jill."

As I watched, Ellie seemed to double in size, like an enraged puffer fish. "You," she said, the word as rough-edged as if it'd been dragged down a cheese grater. "How _dare_ you come here?"

"Ellie," Jill began, in what I was sure would be a fruitless attempt to placate Mama Bear Bartowski, "it's nice to see you again."

Ellie made a noise that was a half-step short of a tea kettle on the boil. "Trust me when I tell you I _cannot _say the same."

"I just wanted to apologize—" Jill began.

"You can take your apology and insert it forcefully where the rays of the sun will never, ever reach. How dare you show up at our apartment complex? How dare you even _look _at my brother, let alone speak to him?" She advanced on Jill, who—clearly sensing the presence of imminent danger—retreated. "You treated my brother like crap the whole time the two of you were together. You never fully committed to him, no matter how good he was to you. All you did was mess with his head. The kindest, smartest, most compassionate, respectful, generous man you could hope to meet—and you spent years using his good nature against him."

Caught halfway between Ellie and the fountain, Jill made her best attempt at contrition—widening her eyes, slumping her shoulders. She looked woebegone … but I was sure it was an act. "You're right, Ellie. Chuck is all of those things. I was wrong. I can only hope he'll forgive me."

Ellie's voice was a growl. "Ah. I see. Like he should forgive you for screwing his best friend—not to mention disappearing during all of your school breaks, when you were probably off sleeping around with God knows who else?"

"I went to see my family." Jill injected a hint of defensiveness into her voice. "And I don't come from money … you know that. Sometimes I had to work."

I didn't buy this for an instant. Her appearance, perfectly tailored for seduction; her body language; her reappearance in Chuck's life at this precise point in time … all of it screamed _suspicious. _I would be reporting this to Graham … and I was very interested to see what the CIA had on her.

"I bet you did." The sarcasm in Ellie's voice was seven-layer-cake thick. "On your back!"

"Ellie—" Chuck began, but his sister cut him off.

"No, Chuck. Don't even try to smooth this over." She stalked closer to Jill, her face white with rage. "You broke up with him after he was accused of cheating—without any real proof, I might add. If you loved him—if you knew him at all—you'd know that's something Chuck would never do. He's brilliant. He was top of his class without even trying. Why the hell would he need to cheat? But the moment things got the slightest bit rough, you kicked him to the curb—and then slept with his slimeball of a so-called best friend." Her lip curled. "I never liked you _or _Bryce, to be honest. And at this point, there's not a single thing you could do to change my mind."

Jill wrung her hands, as if she were auditioning for the part of Desperate Woman Who'd Do Anything to Make Things Right. "If you'd just give me a chance—"

"Oh, I'll give you a chance all right. I'll give you a chance to get the hell out of my courtyard before I rearrange your features with my bare hands." She took another menacing step forward, and Jill retreated once more, until the stone edge of the fountain touched the back of her calves. "Did you know that Chuck has his diploma now? Stanford admitted they made a mistake. That he didn't do anything wrong—something Sarah here realized the moment she met him. She's shown Chuck more respect and had more faith in him in the short time they've known each other than you did during your entire relationship with my brother. She looks out for him. She appreciates him. She cares about him. She looks out for his best interest, which is more than I can say for you."

"I—" Jill began, but it was hopeless. Ellie had gotten in her face and was hissing like a pissed-off cat.

"Unless the end of that sentence is 'am leaving,' I suggest you stop speaking right now."

Jill's mouth opened, then shut. She didn't say a word.

"You have two choices," Ellie went on, her voice coated with a veneer of false calm. "Get off my property right now, or find out how that cute top and that trampy skirt look when they're soaking wet with whatever nasty water has been recirculating through that fountain for the past decade. Really, it's up to you."

Jill glanced at the fountain, then at Ellie's face. "I'll go. Chuck … I'll see you around," she said, and fled, with what little dignity she could muster.

As we watched Jill leave, I wasn't sure how to feel—gratified that Ellie had said all of those kind things about me despite the rough start to our friendship, or horrified that Chuck's ex had showed up … and that there was clearly more to her than met the eye.

"Sarah," Ellie said, smoothing her hands on her jeans and bending to pick up her grocery bags.

"Yes?" I tried to keep the trepidation from my voice.

"Tomorrow," she said, "you and I need to sit down and have a little … chat. But right now, I'm going inside and pouring myself the biggest glass of wine I can muster. Come to think of it, I might just drink straight from the bottle. I _hate _that woman." And with that, she stalked away, leaving the two of us standing by the fountain.

"Um," Chuck said, shifting his weight the way he had outside my apartment a couple nights ago. "I'm so sorry. I don't even know what to say."

"It's not _your _fault." No … this was definitely on Jill … and I was going to find out what she was up to.

"Yeah, I know … but I'm still sorry you had to witness that fiasco. Not one of my finer moments. I just … will you let me make it up to you?"

He looked so downtrodden, I wanted to throw my arms around him. "I thought you did great, considering the circumstances. And your sister came within an inch of kicking Jill's ass. I just have one question."

Chuck sighed. "Just one? If I were you, I could think of about forty-seven. But sure, go ahead and ask."

It was my turn to fidget. "Girlfriend?" I said.

Color filled his cheeks, and he looked down at the flagstones of the courtyard. "I—well, I was just thinking that maybe—if you … I know we haven't talked about it, but I was just thinking we could … if you want … that is …"

I cut his stammering off with a heated kiss, igniting a hint of the earlier fire that had blazed between us. "Thank you, Chuck. I can't think of anything I'd want more."

"Wow." He looked stunned. "Um … In that case, what do you think about stopping by tonight so I can cook us dinner? Unfortunately, right now I should probably deal with Hurricane Ellie before she strips off all the chrome on our fixtures in a drunken cleaning spree."

"I look forward to it," I told him, my voice velvet. "But I take it back, Chuck. There _is_ one thing I want more, after all."

"Yeah … what's that?"

I stood on my tiptoes and gave him another searing kiss, craving his taste and the feel of his hands on my body. When I pulled away, we were both breathless and the look on his face … it was priceless.

Before I left, I reached back up to whisper in his ear, feeling him shiver as my lips grazed his cheek.

"To be continued."

OoOoOoOoO

Back in my apartment, I poured myself a glass of water, bracing myself to call Graham and report in. I needed a few minutes to calm myself, both from the encounter with Jill and that breath-stealing kiss. I drank the water, did a few stretches to ease my cramped muscles after the hours in the car—then channeled my inner agent and made the call.

His secretary answered on the first ring. "Director Graham's office."

It took me a moment to realize that this wasn't Elisa Stanwyck. Jesus, the man was harder on his secretaries than Henry VIII had been on his wives. What had Elisa lasted … three months? At one point, the CATS had started taking bets as to whether one of Graham's assistants would make it to a year's tenure. The problem was, all of us had bet against it.

"Agent Sarah Walker for Director Graham," I said, repressing the urge to wish the newest addition good luck.

"One moment, please." Her voice was crisp. "I'll see if he's available."

Graham made me wait—either because he was genuinely busy or to remind me who held the power here. A full three minutes later, he came on the line. "Report, Agent Walker."

That was Graham—always one for the niceties. "Everything is going well here, sir. Chuck Bartowski has agreed to start searching for his father. I'd like permission to give him everything we have on Orion to assist him with the search."

"Granted—as long as it's strictly kept to Orion's possible location … aliases, methods of communication—that kind of thing. I'll get our analysts to put together a packet and send it to you. Nothing is to be divulged to the asset about Orion's involvement in the Omaha Project at this time. That's to be kept to a need-to-know basis, Agent. Just keep me apprised as the situation evolves."

"Yes, sir." I took a deep breath; Graham did _not _like to be nagged. "Have you given any further thought to my suggestions regarding the software you removed from the asset's computer?"

There was a pause, during which I imagined Graham was giving his phone the look of considerable disdain he'd prefer to bestow on me. "We're finalizing a proposal for him," he said at last, with reluctance. "I'll have it to you soon. Is there anything else?"

In for a penny, in for a pound. "Yes, sir. Earlier today, Chuck's former girlfriend, Jill Roberts, arrived at Echo Park and attempted to make amends for her earlier behavior regarding Agent Larkin." That was the nicest way I could put it; we'd both read Chuck's dossier. "I have reason to believe she isn't being aboveboard."

"Really, Agent Walker?" He cleared his throat. The disdain had bloomed into something just this side of contempt. "This is exactly why involvement with assets is discouraged. You have every reason not to maintain objectivity where the asset and Ms. Roberts are concerned."

I paced, looking into the courtyard through my living room window. "Fair enough, sir. But something about her isn't right. Her behavior—it reminded me of my own training. I know this is a stretch, but I believe it's possible she might be an agent with another faction … or working for someone who isn't on our side. I'd like to request that we look into her."

"Let me get this straight." His tone was dry. "You want me to believe that the ex-girlfriend of the asset, with whom you are currently involved—as well as the individual with whom Agent Larkin committed an indiscretion—is an … agent of some type?"

Running my fingers through my hair, I fought to suppress my own annoyance. I might be falling for Chuck, but that didn't mean my instincts and training had summarily evaporated. "I know how it sounds, sir. But surely you can see how her involvement with both the asset and Agent Larkin might be more than a coincidence—as well as her reappearance now, as the CIA begins to widen its search for Orion."

Silence fell, and I knew enough not to break it. At last Graham said, "You may have a point, Agent. We'll conduct a deep dive into her background—let's hope that it's worth our time."

"Thank you, sir." My heart picked up speed. Graham might have his doubts, but he hadn't been in the courtyard with Jill Roberts. I knew what I'd seen, and my instincts—which I'd come to trust over the past four years—were screaming that something was far from kosher.

"However," Graham went on, "should something prove to be amiss, it will only reinforce my conviction that you need another agent with you for backup."

Not this again. "Really, sir, I—"

"You've made your feelings quite clear on the matter, Agent Walker. However, if your convictions in this case are correct, and Ms. Roberts does indeed prove to be … problematic, then no matter how good you are at your job, it would be irresponsible of me not to supply you with assistance." His voice was laced with satisfaction, a clear hint of cat-got-the-cream. He had me over a barrel, and he knew it. Either Jill was clean, in which case no investigation was necessary; or she was dirty, in which case it would be stupid not to bring someone in to have my back.

It was a game of chess, and as usual, he was a move ahead.

Well, at least I'd won the rounds involving my relationship with Chuck, the surveillance and software, and Bryce's reassignment. Graham needed to reassert control, and I couldn't deny that he had a point.

"Yes, sir," I said with resignation. "As long as it's not Agent Larkin … or anyone like him."

"Oh, it won't be. There's no need to worry about that." He emphasized the last word, and despite everything, I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for Bryce. "Sit tight, and keep me updated. I'll be in touch as soon as I have news."

I tried to say goodbye, but I was talking to an empty line. In true Graham style, he had already hung up.

OoOoOoOoO

Hot showers were supposed to have a calming effect, but you couldn't have proved it by the way I felt right now. I'd used my vanilla-and-lavender body soap, shaved with a brand-new razor, exfoliated within an inch of my life, and moisturized with an attention to detail I usually reserved for reviewing life-or-death mission plans. Then, wrapped in a towel, I sat on the edge of my bed and took some supposedly cleansing breaths … inhale to the count of four—exhale to the count of six.

None of it made any difference. I was still losing my freakin' mind.

Thirty minutes before my dinner date with Chuck, I stood in front of my closet, wishing Carina and I were still speaking. Right now, I could've used a female best friend's opinion—or really, anyone whose opinion on fashion was more finely honed than my own. I would've sought Ellie's advice, but it seemed creepy to solicit her thoughts on the cutest outfit to wear for _the night _with her brother.

If it were a matter of choosing clothes to capture a mark's attention, or selecting the best weapon for the evening—gun, knife … grenade—I would've been in my element. But when it came to picking out an outfit for tonight, I was at a total loss. He'd already seen the blue dress I'd worn to Thanksgiving, the little black dress I'd worn for our dinner date, and the red sweater. Choosing anything reminiscent of what Jill had been wearing was obviously out … and besides which, I had no desire to look like a sexy librarian on the make or a naughty secretary with intentions of pursuing extracurricular employment opportunities.

I rifled through my luggage for the third time, as if another item of clothing would magically appear. Three potential outfits were strewn across my bed (black silk shirt and skinny jeans; forest-green cap-sleeved maxi dress; wheat-colored corduroy skirt and empire-waist tunic). They were _all_ wrong. Everything was wrong. _I _was wrong.

Being indecisive wasn't my style, and scanning my wardrobe again and again was making my head hurt. Besides, I was running out of time. I had to choose _something.  
_

In desperation, I settled on a butter-yellow midi dress with a high-low hem. I'd bought the dress because the color complimented my hair. It had tiny buttons engraved with flowers and a princess-seamed bodice that hugged my curves without being blatant about it. The color was better suited for spring, but I felt confident when I was wearing it—something I badly needed right now—and it wasn't as if Chuck was the fashion police. I clasped a silver-and-amber choker around my neck, chose a pair of silver hoop earrings, slid on a pair of low-heeled cream-colored slingbacks, and called it quits.

Now that I was dressed, I had a whole new set of worries. I'd resolved to come clean about the surveillance and software, but what if Chuck didn't want anything to do with me after that? I'd promised him the truth, but then I'd kept crucial information from him. I wanted to be with him more than anything, but I knew our relationship had to be grounded in trust and honesty. Anything short of that would eventually implode. What would I do if he asked me to leave … or if he never wanted to talk to me again?

Then there was the issue of my inexperience. I was used to having a plan and knowing exactly how to enact it. I spoke eleven languages, had parachuted into enemy territory, conducted raids on terror cells, infiltrated the Russian mob, flown a getaway plane, simultaneously disabled seven men who wanted to see me dead … but I'd never dated someone before, much less done what I thought we were going to do tonight. No matter how kind and sincere Chuck was, this was a serious imbalance of power. I wasn't used to feeling vulnerable and trusting anyone other than myself. Yes, I wanted to be with Chuck. Yes, I was ready. But I was still scared to death.

I checked my watch: Two minutes till seven. I'd officially run out of time.

Steeling myself, I shut the door of my apartment behind me and locked it. Then I crossed the courtyard to Chuck's apartment. My clutch in one hand—keys, wallet, phone, throwing knife; what else did an everyday girl need?—I knocked with the other.

Chuck answered a second later, as if he'd been standing by the door, waiting. For all I knew, maybe he had. A smile spread across his face as he took me in. "You look beautiful."

I felt a rush of relief. Apparently the dress had been a good choice after all.

"So do you," I said, and then could have kicked myself … if such a thing were possible. But he _did _look scrumptious—at least to me. His dark eyes were bright, his curls were adorably mussed despite an obvious attempt to tame them, and his white button-down and dark-wash jeans were undeniably sexy.

He laughed and opened the door wider, so I could come in. "I'm glad you think so. Can I get you a drink? Red wine, white … something else?"

"Red wine would be great," I said, and he ducked into the kitchen to get it.

I stood in the entranceway, taking everything in. The apartment smelled of roast chicken and rosemary, with an underlying hint of cinnamon. Two white votive candles burned on the dining room table, flanking a vase of sunflowers, and soft jazz hummed in the background. He'd set the table with cloth napkins and what looked like fancy china.

Wow. He hadn't been kidding about making me dinner.

Chuck appeared in the kitchen doorway, a glass of wine in each hand. "Is it okay?" he said, his voice hesitant. "Too much?"

"It's perfect," I said, and meant it. "But where are Ellie and Devon?"

"They're both working. It's just us."

The words seemed to linger in the air, heavy with implication. As if to defuse the tension, Chuck crossed the room and handed me my wine. He pressed a chaste kiss to my cheek. "I hope you like chicken," he said. "There are only a few things I can make reliably well, and roast chicken's one of them. It's hard to screw that up. There's a salad too—no cooking involved—and a surprise dessert. I hope you're hungry."

"Who doesn't like roast chicken—other than a vegetarian, which I'm definitely not?" I said, making a Herculean effort to tamp down the electric sensation that his innocent kiss had evoked. _Pull yourself together, Walker_. _He invited you for dinner, not to jump his bones._ "It sounds amazing. And I'm starved."

"Great. Here, you sit down. I'll bring everything in."

"I can help," I protested, but he shook his head.

"I asked you over. This one's on me. Have a seat, drink your wine … relax. I'll be right back."

Suppressing a grin at his assertiveness, I took a seat in front of one of the place settings. I could hear Chuck banging around in the kitchen; something thudded to the floor and he swore to himself.

"Everything okay in there?"

More thudding. "Everything's fine. I just … I dropped something, and it's possible I may have burned myself. But everything's good. Great, actually. You just … stay put."

I pressed my hand to my mouth to suppress a giggle. "If you say so."

A minute later, Chuck appeared, holding a platter with a glistening bird on it. He looked as triumphant as if he'd shot the thing himself. "Ta-dah!" he said.

"Did you just say _ta-dah_?" Honestly, how could I have fallen for such a nerd? And why did I find his very nerdiness so endearing?

"What's wrong with _ta-dah?" _He set the platter down on the table. "Now for the salad. One moment, madame."

After a few more minutes of Chuck playing waiter, he slid into the seat opposite me. There was a sprig of what looked like parsley in his hair and his face was smudged with something indeterminate—he looked like he'd gone into battle with his ingredients—but he radiated happiness.

He lifted his wine glass in a toast. "To us," he said.

My lips twitched. "To us," I agreed, clinking my glass against his. "And to this dinner, which looks incredible." Leaning across the table, I plucked the sprig of parsley from his curls.

Chuck smiled. "I hope you like it."

The chicken was delicious—the skin crisp and buttery, the meat perfectly cooked and infused with garlic and herbs. Chuck passed me the basket of ciabatta rolls, still hot from the oven, and I bit into one with a little moan of delight, my eyes fluttering shut. When I opened them again, Chuck was staring at me, a blush coloring his cheeks … which made me blush too. I hadn't meant for my reaction to sound like a come-on—but obviously it had.

There was no way for me to take it back, so I took another sip of wine to hide my embarrassment. Chuck did the same, dropping his gaze. We ate in a companionable silence for a few minutes, savoring our food, before he reached across the table and took my hand.

"I hope this doesn't sound patronizing," he said, "but I'm so proud of you for being brave enough to find your mom and go see her. I know it had to be terrifying. Watching you go through that—it made me want to step up my efforts to find my dad … and to look for my mom, too."

I threaded my fingers more tightly through his. "Are you sure?"

Slowly, he nodded. "Ellie and I deserve to know what happened, if for no other reason than to have some kind of closure. Maybe she's … dead, much as I hate to think it. Or maybe she's remarried with two more kids, a puppy, and a white picket fence, and she won't want anything to do with us. But either way—I need to know. It's time."

I swallowed hard. "I got permission to share pertinent details the CIA has on your father with you. And as for finding your mom—I'll help you … any way I can."

That incomparable smile lit his face again. Tears clouded his eyes, but he didn't let them fall. When he spoke, his voice was soft. "I know you will."

We ate the rest of our dinner, making small talk about the food, the wine, the weather. All that mattered was that we were together. Each time his fingers brushed mine—when he refilled my glass or passed me a dish for seconds—a thrill ran through my body. His gaze lingered on mine, and in the flickering candlelight, with the music playing in the background, I felt as if we were the only two people in the world.

For dessert, Chuck presented me with a lopsided peach tart, clearly homemade. "I know it looks weird," he said when I gaped at him, "but your mom said peaches were your favorite, and you were so happy when you had the pie and ice cream last night. I wanted to make you something special. I've never made a tart before … and I know it's kind of funny-looking. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't eat it, but I just wanted to try—"

I stopped his babbling with another kiss. "This is the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me." It was the truth. "Did you make one for yourself, too?"

His gaze fell to the floor. "Well. Um. When you heard something fall, earlier … and I told you I burned myself … that might've been the end of the other peach tart. You've got the only one. It's a limited edition."

"Even better," I said, spearing the tart with my fork. "We can share."

We spent the next ten minutes sipping coffee spiked with Baileys and feeding each other bites of the tart—which was delectable, despite its unconventional appearance. Finally Chuck stood, gave me another one of his devastating smiles, and held out his hand. "Dance with me?"

I took his hand, and he guided me into the living room. We moved together to the sensual melody of a song I actually knew—The Beatles' _Something__.  
_

It was now or never. "Chuck," I said, resting my head on his chest, "there's something I have to tell you."

He looked down at me, his serene expression morphing into wariness. "More than what you already have?"

Mustering every bit of my courage, I told him about the surveillance equipment, and how the CIA had taken the software from his computer. "I should have told you before," I said, tipping my head up to face him, "but I'd already dumped so much on you and Ellie … I figured there was only so much you could take. But I should have said something. It was dishonest to keep it from you. I'm really sorry."

I held my breath, half-expecting him to drop my hand and ask me to leave the house. But instead he just gave me a sad half-smile.

"I already knew all of that, Sarah. I found the bugs in my room after you told me and Ellie everything. And I also know they're gone now … thanks to you."

"You knew? And you didn't say anything?" My mouth fell open in shock.

We weren't dancing anymore, but he still held me close. "I figured you'd tell me when you were ready. After all, the bugs were gone. Obviously, they're not trying to spy on us anymore. And I'm more than certain you had something to do with that." He tightened his grip on my fingers. "I trust you."

Those three words hit me like a sledgehammer. "Thank you, Chuck," was all that I could manage.

"I knew about the software, too. I've got a keylogger on my desktop; I can see every keystroke that was made on that computer. The software they took is four years old, Sarah." He gave a self-deprecating shrug. "My real work is somewhere else … someplace safe."

He really was Orion's son. I felt a flash of pride. I should have known there was no way someone as talented and savvy as Chuck would leave valuable proprietary work on his personal computer. "Well, then …" I said, "how would you feel about selling exclusive rights to your older work to the CIA?"

"They want to buy my software? What would motivate them to do that, if they already stole it?" His eyebrows shot up toward his hairline … then fell, as realization dawned. "Oh. You talked to them, didn't you." It wasn't a question.

I shifted my weight in my slingbacks. "I didn't think it was fair. But if they're interested in it, let's get you lawyered up and have them pay for it."

"I'll have to take your word on this one. It's out of my wheelhouse. And I hope you won't consider me too forward if I invite you to my bedroom." He gave me a suggestive grin, exaggerated enough to be in jest. "I want to show you something."

Now that I knew he wasn't going to put the kibosh on our relationship, the thought of seeing his room—with no one else in the house—set my pulse racing. I hoped he couldn't feel the blood pounding in my fingertips. "Lead on."

Without further innuendo, he kept hold of my hand and tugged me down the hallway. I'd seen his room before, of course, through the surveillance cameras, but this was different. This time, he'd invited me in. His room smelled like him—cologne and the fresh scent of his soap—and there was his bed with its familiar blue comforter, right in front of me … terrifying and welcoming and …

I forced myself to look away. "What did you want to show me?"

Chuck seemed to be having trouble avoiding his bed, too. His eyes studiously averted, he tugged me past it to stand in front of his computer desk. "Here. This is my real search program."

I looked where he was directing me. On the screen, windows opened and closed at incredible speed—all automated. I had no idea what I was looking at, but it was beyond impressive.

"See?" He'd moved to stand behind me, his chin resting on the top of my head and his arms wrapped around me. Now he pressed his lips to my hair, feather-light. "All safe and secure."

I didn't know whether he intended this to be a double entendre, but there was no question that it was. He had done what an arsenal of weapons and years of training could not. I'd never felt as safe as I did in his arms.

I turned to face him, his grip loosening to let me. The atmosphere between us shifted, alchemizing in a moment into that now-familiar heat. "Chuck?"

"Yeah?" This close, I could swear I felt his heart pounding. His breath came short, ruffling my hair.

I summoned every bit of strength I could find and swallowed my embarrassment. He knew how inexperienced I was, and he was such a considerate man. A gentleman. If this was going to happen, I knew I would have to be the one to take the lead. "I don't know how to do this," I admitted, feeling the blood heat my cheeks. "But—I want to be with you. If you want the same thing, of course."

"If I want to?" His low laugh rippled through me. "Do you even need to ask? But, Sarah—are you sure? We've known each other for such a short time."

I nodded. "I've never been so sure of anything in my life."

He hesitated, undecided. Then his resolve crumbled and he kissed me, his lips ghosting mine. I could feel him trembling, until he froze and looked me dead in the eye. "You could have anyone in the world. Why me?"

The fact that he'd asked that question was all the answer I needed. "I don't want anyone else, Chuck." I reached up, looping my arms around his neck, pulling him down to me. "I want you."

This time, when he ducked his head to kiss me, he didn't pull away. Time came to me in flashes: We were kissing in front of his computer; we were up against the wall and I was yanking his shirt over his head; his bare skin was hot against mine and my dress was on the floor.

His hands came up to cup my breasts. I could feel him shaking. "God, Sarah. You're so—I never …"

He ran out of words, but that was okay … perfect, even. We didn't need them. All of the important things had already been said.

I'd been worried I wouldn't know what to do, but my body responded effortlessly to his, arching into his touch. His fingers traced my curves, his touch reverent, before they settled on my hips. He lifted me, with an enthusiasm that more than compensated for his lack of grace, and carried me toward the bed. Stretched full-length on top of me, his weight balanced on his elbows, he brushed a strand of hair from my face.

"One last time, Sarah, just so I can hear you say it. You're really sure?"

In answer, I trailed my lips down his neck and felt him tense against me. "Yes," I said again. "Are _you_ sure?"

He nodded, so enthusiastically that I had to suppress a giggle, his dark eyes fixed on mine. "I just … I hope I don't disappoint you."

I'd been so busy feeling insecure, it never occurred to me that he might feel the same way. "You could never disappoint me. No matter what happens, it'll be wonderful … I know—because it'll be with you."

My hands went to the top button of his jeans. He helped me, easing them over his hips and dropping them to the floor. His boxers and my underwear followed … and then he paused, drinking me in.

"You're the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen." His voice was hoarse.

When other guys had said this to me, I'd felt dirty, objectified. When the words came out of Chuck's mouth, they just felt … right—sincere.

"Come here." I pulled him close. His body covered mine, and he reached out, opening the drawer of his bedside table. I heard the crinkle of a wrapper tearing, and then his voice came low, choked with emotion.

"I promise to be gentle."

And he was. He touched me with veneration, like I might shatter if he handled me too roughly. I felt the wet heat of his mouth on my breasts, then drifting lower—teasing his way across the sensitive skin of my belly, then lower still. I gasped and twined my fingers through his hair, never imagining that anything could feel this good. And when I did shatter, an indescribable wave of pleasure washing over me, he held me tight and told me how beautiful I looked, how perfect.

Then he kissed his way up my body, and I heard the crinkle of the wrapper again. I held his gaze as he slid over me, into me. It hurt, as I had expected it would—but the moment I tensed, he froze. "Okay?" he whispered, and I nodded, knowing that even now, he was putting my needs above his own.

"Don't stop," I whispered back, and he took me at my word.

Afterward, I fell asleep cradled in his arms, his face buried in my hair, and dreamed of him—the guy who loved me.

* * *

A/N: This is the beginning of the second act of our story. Chuck and Sarah are now a couple, but that doesn't mean everything will be smooth sailing from here on out … in fact, far from it! Our gratitude to Richard76310 and phathead01, who have read through The Guy Who Loved Me in its entirety over the past week and commented on every chapter. We are so appreciative of your support—as well as the support of everyone else who has continued to follow this story.

A/N #2: The title of this chapter is excerpted from a line in John Green's novel, _The Fault in Our Stars: _"I fell in love the way you fall asleep: Slowly, and then all at once."

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	12. Love and War

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 12:** **Love and War  
**

I woke the next morning with Chuck's arms still wrapped around me, the same way we'd fallen asleep. Relaxed and sated, I basked in my memories of last night—the amazing dinner he'd made me, the intimacy of dancing with him, his acceptance of my confession … and everything that had come afterward. I couldn't have asked for a more generous, thoughtful lover or a more memorable first time. He'd been so careful with me, so gentle—until I decided he needn't be, anymore. I'd never imagined the overwhelming sense of power it would give me to watch him fall apart, shattering beneath me as he whispered my name. I'd been so grateful that, inexperienced as I was, I'd been able to give him such pleasure … and I couldn't wait to do it again.

He nuzzled against me, waking, and I turned in his arms and brushed a tousled curl from his forehead. "Good morning," I whispered, smiling up at him.

He smiled back—the biggest, most beautiful smile I'd ever seen. "Morning. How do you feel?"

"I feel …" I searched for words. "Wonderful. Elated. And oh, so lucky."

His fingers skated over the swell of my breast, dipping down to my waist, then coming to rest on my hip. He tugged me tight against him, both of us still naked, his lips drifting down my neck to press against the hollow of my throat. "You stole my line."

My skin felt hot everywhere he touched—as if it were thinner than usual, my blood closer to the surface. Feeling suddenly brave, I slipped from his grasp and rolled on top of him. He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes widening, as I bent down to brush his lips with mine. The tips of my breasts rubbed against his chest, sending an electric jolt that coursed through my body. I gasped when his hands came up to grip my hips, moving me in time with his own. "Sarah …?"

"Yes." I felt breathless. "Please, yes."

He pulled me closer still—just as a knock sounded on his bedroom door. "Chuck? You awake?"

Oh, God. Ellie.

The effect was galvanizing. I'd rarely panicked before … even when multiple enemies were holding me at gunpoint—but I panicked now, leaping off Chuck like I'd been hit with a cattle prod and pulling the covers over my head in true toddler _if-I-can't-see-you-then-you-can't-see-me _style. Next to me, Chuck hissed out a curse, sounding as appalled as I felt.

The doorknob rattled. "Chuck? You've got to be at work in an hour. Did you sleep through your alarm?"

Beneath the covers, he found my hand and laced his fingers through mine. "No," he said, in a reasonable facsimile of his normal voice. "I'm awake. I'll be out in a sec."

I heard the knob turn, and then the hinges creaked as the door opened. Chuck's hand squeezed mine—in reassurance? Alarm? I couldn't tell.

"You sound weird, Chuck," Ellie said, her voice closer now. "What are you … oh!" There was a telltale pause, during which I blushed beet-red and wished fervently that I could evaporate from underneath the covers.

Awkwardly, Chuck cleared his throat. "I—uh …"

"Good morning, Sarah," Ellie said, in a cheery, sing-song voice … and then it darkened. "Unless that's Jill under there, in which case she should probably get ready to utter her last words … and you might not be far behind her, little brother." There was steel in her warning.

"Oh, God, Ellie! Of course it isn't …!" Chuck sounded indignant. "How could you even think that I—with her—especially since Sarah and I …"

"Well, I had to make sure, Chuck. And I didn't really think you would. There's a limit to even your forgiving nature." Now Ellie's voice was laced with amusement. "It's good to … _see_ you again, Sarah. Or not, as the case may be."

Still puce with mortification, I poked my head out from under the covers. "Hi, Ellie."

She gave me an innocent wave. "Lucky for the two of you, I went shopping yesterday. I've got plenty of stuff for omelets. Eggs are full of protein, you know. They'll give you energy. And I bet you two are _starving_." Her mouth twitched, as if she was having trouble keeping a straight face.

"Ellie!" Chuck said in reproach, his fingers tightening around mine—in apology this time, I was sure.

"Sorry," she said, not sounding the least bit. "Go take a shower, little brother. Sarah—can you come help me with breakfast? I could use a second set of hands—and it would give us the perfect opportunity to have our little … chat."

I managed a weak smile in return, and without giving either of us time to protest, she turned and left.

It occurred to me—not for the first time—that Ellie Bartowski would make an excellent general. If she and Graham ever wound up in the same room, I wasn't sure which one of them would make it out alive. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, I collapsed onto the bed, still clutching the sheet to my chest. "That … was … awful," I said, punctuating each word with a thump of my head onto the pillow.

"No kidding," Chuck said, scrubbing a hand over his face. "First your mom, then Jill, and now Ellie. I think the universe is conspiring against us."

"It _is_ kind of funny," I offered. "Like a bad sitcom."

"Really?" He gave me a beleaguered look. "Because personally? I am not amused."

I thought of what had been about to happen—of the addictive feel of his hands on my hips, the tantalizing memory of him moving inside me—and sighed. "Yeah, I'm not either. But I guess we don't have a choice—better get up and face the music."

"I _love_ that you sound so disappointed." He leaned over to kiss me.

I kissed him back—but my heart was pounding. His emphasis on the word 'love' had nearly undone me. Of course he wasn't about to say he loved me, I admonished myself. We'd known each other for such a short time, as he himself had pointed out. But … did I want him to? And what would I have said if he had?

Chuck got out of bed, and instinctively, I looked away. Sure, I'd seen the whole show last night, but somehow it felt different in the light of day … more intimate, if such a thing was possible.

Speaking of which—what the hell was I supposed to wear in this more-than-awkward situation? All I had was the yellow dress from last night, which was lying in a heap on the floor next to Chuck's desk. It was probably wrinkled as hell … and talk about doing the walk of shame. God—I really hadn't thought this through. Then again, I hadn't intended to sleep here all night; normally I woke up multiple times, on edge or troubled by dreams. Last night, though, in Chuck's arms, I'd slept better than I had in years … and now I was paying the price.

Pulling on his boxers, Chuck crossed to his desk and picked up my dress. He handed it to me, running his knuckles gently along my cheekbone. "If I offered you one of my T-shirts and some sweats to wear," he said, "would that just make things worse?"

I shook my head. "Yes. No. I don't know." It wasn't like I knew the appropriate protocol for these types of situations. What were you supposed to do when your new boyfriend's uber-maternal sister nearly caught you _in flagrante delicto, _a couple of days after she discovered you were a CIA agent sent to spy on her family?

"I'm sorry about this." Chuck brushed my hair back from my face. "I wanted everything to be perfect for you."

There was real regret in his voice, and I lifted my hand to take his. "It was," I said, looking straight into his fathomless brown eyes. "It was even more special than I'd imagined. And it's my fault that I didn't go home last night—even though I don't regret waking up like we did. I suppose I could always escape out the window?"

Chuck laughed, as if he thought I was kidding. I hadn't been—but the only thing worse than my current situation would be if Ellie caught me running across the courtyard, slingbacks in hand. Not to mention, my clutch was still in the dining room … which, I realized, we'd never cleaned up after our dinner. God, I was batting a thousand today.

"You'll look gorgeous no matter what you choose," he said, grabbing some clean clothes from his dresser drawers and closet—his Buy More uniform, I realized. "If you change your mind about the clothes, my T-shirts are in the bottom left drawer and my sweats are on the right. And you're welcome to use my toothbrush if you want. It's the green one. I'll leave the bathroom door unlocked while I shower so you can come in."

I couldn't decide what to do—brazen it out in my crumpled yellow dress or just admit what we'd been doing by appearing in the kitchen in Chuck's clothes. After a couple moments of intense deliberation, I decided to go with the latter. The yellow dress was so obviously a Date Dress that I might as well appear in the kitchen wearing a sign that said Nope, I Never Went Home Last Night. At least his clothes would be clean.

I found a pair of gray sweatpants that seemed normal enough—if a bit large—and opened the drawer Chuck had indicated to scavenge for a top. And then I froze, staring.

The drawer was filled with T-shirts festooned with all sorts of cartoonish images. As pop-culture-ignorant as I was, even I could recognize some of them: characters from the Simpsons; some kind of four-legged machine that I associated vaguely with Star Wars; Pac-Man and his lovely wife, complete with a red bow.

Holy crap. Chuck wasn't just a nerd … he was a card-carrying, full-blown Neo-Maxi-Zoom-Dweebie. And yet I found his very Zoom-Dweebieness absolutely adorable. Still, what if it was contagious? What if for Christmas, I found myself requesting a golden lasso and gauntlets to go with my red-white-and-blue uniform?

With a sigh, I extracted Ms. Pac-Man and company from the drawer. Five minutes later, dressed in Chuck's oversized clothes and as together as I could manage, I made my way down the hall to the bathroom. As I brushed my teeth, I tried not to think about Chuck in the shower … just a few feet away, naked and wet and totally inaccessible. Or was he?

Nope, I wasn't going to think about that with his sister waiting for me. I fled the bathroom, then marched into the kitchen for omelet duty … and the 'chat' I was dreading.

Ellie leaned against the counter, sipping a cup of coffee and looking casual in a long-sleeved white linen button-down and a pair of yoga pants. She didn't bother to hide the grin that spread across her face when she saw me. "A fan of classic arcade games, I take it?"

The heavenly aroma of fresh coffee filled the room. I shrugged, suddenly so desperate for caffeine that I didn't care what she thought of me. "I'm more of a live-action girl myself," I said, glancing down at my ghost-and-Pac-Man-emblazoned tee. "But I seem to have forgotten a change of clothes and … well, beggars can't be choosers."

"Fair enough. Coffee's over there," she said, gesturing at the machine. "Mugs are in the cabinet above it, cream's in the fridge, and sugar's right here. When you get caffeinated, you can help me by chopping up some peppers and onions. We're making Western omelets."

I doctored my coffee and then made my way over to the cutting board, where an onion and two red peppers sat next to a fierce-looking chef's knife. At last—something with which I was experienced: A blade. I sliced the tops off the peppers, crossed to the sink to rinse out the seeds, and then set to work dicing with a vengeance.

It took me a moment to realize Ellie was staring at me, mouth open. "Do you have something against those peppers?" she said.

I glanced down. Both of the peppers were neatly, precisely diced, the pieces identically sized. "Did I do something wrong?"

She shook her head, looking awed. "Not at all. I just—I've never seen anyone chop peppers so … efficiently … and I'm dating a surgeon. You must have plenty of experience with cutlery. The CIA teach you that?"

The peppers suddenly felt like an incrimination. "There's not much call for cooking in the CIA," I said. "It's the Central Intelligence Agency, not the Culinary Institute of America. But yes, since you mention it—I'm not bad with a blade."

One side of her mouth quirked up in a grin. "Then let's hope my brother stays on your good side."

I didn't know what to say to that. Instead I pushed the peppers to one side of the cutting board with the flat of the knife and started in on the onion. It made my eyes tear up, and Ellie handed me a napkin.

"So," she said, her tone conversational, "how was it?"

Stupidly, I glanced down at the cutting board. "The onion?"

"No, silly. Your date with my little brother. And … your sleepover." She shot a knowing look my way. "I don't want details. In fact, _please _don't give me details. That would be TMI. But … did you two … you know?"

Sure that my face could've given a tomato a run for its money, I could only nod.

Ellie looked—of all things—delighted. "And this was your first time, right?"

Was it possible for me to be any more embarrassed? Not trusting my voice, I nodded again.

Her voice was all business now. "Well, I'm sure my brother was a gentleman. It's just who he is."

"He was … and it was … wonderful." The words came out soft and shy—not how I normally sounded at all. "He was kind and patient and—everything I could've hoped he would be."

Crossing to the refrigerator, she grabbed a carton of eggs and cracked several into a bowl. "I wouldn't have expected anything else from him. Fair warning … Chuck may be in way over his head when it comes to you. He looks at you differently than he ever looked at Jill."

Before I could react to this welcome tidbit of information, a grimace contorted Ellie's features. "I still can't believe that_ bitch_ showed up here yesterday. Just saying her name makes me want to break something. But yeah … when they were together, even when he was thinking about asking her to marry him—he never looked at her the way he looks at you."

My eyes teared up again, and this time it wasn't from the onions. "He's not the only one who's in way over their head, Ellie," I admitted, taking a sip of my coffee and leaning back against the counter. "I've never felt this way about anyone before. In fact, I think this might be my last mission. I'd like the chance to have a real future with him—if he'll have me—and I don't see how that's possible while I'm still an agent."

Whoa. Where had that come from?

Ellie was staring at me, her eyes wide. "Really?"

I set my mug down on the counter with a clatter. Liquid sloshed over the sides. "That was too intense, wasn't it," I said, trying to backpedal. "I know it's crazy to think about making such a major decision so quickly. It's just that—well, I really like your brother, Ellie. More than that, I think … no, I _know_ … that I'm falling for him—hard." It was way too soon to use the l-word; even a relationship neophyte like me knew that.

Ellie's eyes were soft. "I get it, Sarah. It was like that for me and Devon. Sometimes when it's right, you just know."

Now that I'd started sharing what was on my mind—and in my heart—I couldn't seem to stop. "I'm just thankful that I found him when I did. Before I met you and Chuck, my life was teetering on the edge … caught between doing my duty for the sake of my country and blindly following orders. I'd gotten to the point where I couldn't resist praise for a job well done, no matter how distasteful." I swallowed hard, unable to meet her gaze. "Graham knew that. Pretty soon, he would've probably started sending me on missions that stripped me of my humanity. Meeting you two when I did might have saved me from becoming some kind of monster—one of Graham's lethal weapons—his enforcer."

Silence descended as Ellie took this in. Finally she said, "God, Sarah. That sounds horrible. I can't even imagine. And I'm so sorry if this sounds insensitive … but just how good are you?"

"Ah. Well." There wasn't enough coffee in the world to have this discussion. "Let's just say that at the Farm, where I trained, I set a lot of records. And after that … I never failed any mission Graham gave me."

I prayed Ellie wouldn't ask me for details. If she knew some of the things I'd done—the lies I'd told, the people I'd hurt—maybe she wouldn't be so keen to accept me into their lives. And right now, next to being with Chuck and finding my mother again, her friendship felt like a lifeline.

She regarded me, taking a slow sip of her coffee. And then she nodded, the motion decisive. "I'm glad, Sarah. I'm sorry that what you've been ordered to do has left a mark on you—I'd have to be blind not to see that—but I'm relieved that you're here to protect us both."

Surprised, I gaped at her—but she just gave me a Mona Lisa smile and crossed to the pantry, pulling out the olive oil and pouring some into the omelet pan. Then she went back to the eggs and cracked a few more into the bowl, whisking them with a matter-of-fact attention to detail.

I'd been right—Ellie was both fierce and practical. A woman after my own heart. "Since we're sharing," I said, "I have to tell you something. It may amount to nothing at all—and you might think I'm crazy—but I'd feel guilty if I didn't let you know."

Ellie's eyes narrowed, and she whipped the eggs like they'd done something to deserve it. "Go ahead. I'm listening."

"It's about Jill." The olive oil in the pan began to sizzle, and I dumped the onions in, spreading them out with a spatula. "I haven't had a chance to mention this to Chuck yet, but I will. We just … we didn't exactly have time last night."

Ellie pulled the salt and pepper off the spice rack and sprinkled some onto the onions. "When it comes to that hussy, there's not much you could say that I wouldn't believe—as long as it didn't paint her in a positive light."

I had to suppress a smile at her vehemence. "Well, I'm not exactly objective, either. But I have to tell you, the way she acted yesterday, her clothes, her mannerisms … it set off alarm bells in my head. Not only do I think she has an agenda, I think she might have some kind of training—like my own."

Ellie froze, the pepper grinder in her hand. "You think _Jill _is a spy?"

"I have no idea. I know she's not working with my agency … but Bryce was already recruited by the time he met Chuck," I pointed out. "The timing is a bit too coincidental for my liking. First Jill dates Chuck, and then as soon as he's expelled she has a fling with Bryce Larkin—the same guy who framed him to 'supposedly' keep Chuck out of the spy game. And now, here she is again—right when I'm sent to gather intel on how to find your father. What are the chances?"

I hadn't thought it was possible for Ellie to look more enraged where Jill was concerned than she had before—but I'd been wrong. "If it's true, and she's up to something," she said, biting out each word, "what next?"

"I spoke with the Director. He's having a team investigate her—to see if she's with any of the other intelligence agencies or worse, some kind of rogue faction." I scraped the peppers into the pan, where they sizzled alongside the onions. "If they find anything that's worrisome, they'll send me some backup … but it won't be Bryce."

Ellie put the pepper back on the rack and turned to face me. "You'll keep us in the loop." It wasn't a question.

"Of course," I said, and, satisfied, she carried the bowl to the stove and poured in the eggs.

"Keep us in the loop about what?" Chuck stood in the kitchen doorway, wearing his Buy More uniform—white button-down shirt and gray tie—for what would be one of the last times. When he saw me wearing his clothes, his eyes widened with appreciation.

Great. I was glad _someone _thought I looked sexy wearing Ms. Pac-Man … because I felt ridiculous. Chuck, on the other hand, was every bit as hot as he'd been when I'd woken up beside him. His hair was still wet from the shower, and he smelled deliciously, familiarly like himself. I did what I wanted to do every time I saw him … I crossed the room to where he stood and pressed my lips to his.

"Nothing that matters right now," I said in response to his question. "I'll tell you everything after work, when we have more time."

He dropped a kiss on the top of my head, then gave me a final appreciative look and made a beeline for the coffeemaker. "That's fine with me. I'd like to have a peaceful morning for once … if such a thing is possible."

I breathed a sigh of relief as Ellie opened the refrigerator and took out the ham and cheese. She sliced the ham into bits and added both to the omelet with the ease of long practice. This made two home-cooked breakfasts in as many mornings … something I hadn't experienced in years. The CATS weren't known for our domesticity.

Chuck took a long swig of his coffee. "Ellie, that looks amazing."

She slid the finished product onto a platter and sliced it into three pieces. "I'm glad you think so … because you'll be doing the dishes when you get off work today, little brother. You left the kitchen a total disaster last night—but at least it was for a good cause."

She winked, Chuck turned red, and I buried my face in my coffee. Why did I think Ellie would never let us live this down?

"I can clean up after Chuck leaves for work," I offered.

"Thanks." Ellie handed me a plate. "I'd appreciate that. I'm assuming Chuck made you his famous roast chicken in that pan … and if someone doesn't attack it soon, the remnants will be caked on there forever. Come on, let's eat."

We had breakfast together—the spy, the neurologist, and the tech genius—and then I walked Chuck out. Before we got to the door, Ellie enveloped me in a bone-crushing hug. "Everything will be all right," she whispered into my ear. "And I'm so glad that Chuck found you."

I hugged her back, feeling buoyed by her support, and followed Chuck out to the courtyard. We stopped by the fountain, and I stood on my tiptoes to kiss him goodbye.

"I'll bring you lunch, if that's okay," I said when I could bring myself to let go.

He smiled. "I'd like that."

I watched him walk away, filled with amazement and joy at my good fortune. Humming, I strolled back to his apartment, counting the moments until I could see him again.

OoOoOoOoO

I spent the next hour or so cleaning up the mess Chuck had made in the kitchen—honestly, it looked like he'd prepared dinner in the midst of a hurricane. Still, I was touched that he'd gone to so much trouble just to make me a meal. When I thought of the hopeful look on his face when he'd presented me with the lopsided peach tart, I couldn't help but smile.

Graham didn't have any news for me, and I was all caught up on work for the time being, so I did what I'd never done before … I unpacked my suitcase, putting my underwear and socks in the dresser drawers and hanging my nicer clothes in the closet. Burbank was my home now. I was here to stay, and unpacking was a symbolic act that made it official.

To celebrate, I picked up Thai food—panang curry and basil chicken, with mango sticky rice for dessert—and made my way to the Buy More around noon, to deliver the lunch I'd promised Chuck. As I was walking toward the store, bags in hand, I got the unmistakable feeling I was being watched.

I scanned the parking lot … and saw a white panel van with tinted windows idling in front of the Large Mart. It was facing away from the Buy More, but that didn't mean anything—or maybe it meant that whoever was in the van was deliberately trying to look as if the store wasn't their target. I diverted my path, walking toward it—but before I could get too close, the van took off. I'd gotten their license plate, but I would've far preferred to get a look at whoever was driving. Sure, it could be a coincidence that they'd taken off when they saw me coming—but experience had taught me not to ignore such things.

Feeling uneasy, I made my way into the store … and stopped short. Standing in front of the Nerd Herd desk was none other than Jill, clad in a clingy off-the-shoulder maroon wrap dress and looking agitated.

Seriously? I didn't know which was worse—if Jill's presence here was connected to the panel van, or if it wasn't. Either way, it would be an understatement to say I wasn't happy to see her. What the hell was wrong with that woman? She knew Chuck and I were dating. If she was here to try to manipulate him into getting back together with her, she had some serious nerve. Then again, if she was here in another capacity … that was alarming on a whole different level.

For the second time since I'd arrived in Burbank, I ducked into one of the aisles and eased closer to where Chuck was standing, finding an angle where I could get a good look at his face. He looked annoyed, and the green-eyed monster inside me began to settle down. Surely if her attempts at seduction were succeeding, he'd be wearing an expression other than irritation.

"Please," Jill said, putting a hand on top of Chuck's, which was resting on top of his desk. "I just want to talk."

He yanked his hand away like she'd burned him. "How many times do I have to tell you that we have nothing to say to each other?"

"I can understand why you'd say that." She tilted her head, looking as miserable as a kid in one of those sad-eyed velvet paintings …if that kid was out to seduce someone else's man. "Granted, the circumstances under which we left things weren't ideal, but—"

"Not _ideal_?" His voice actually squeaked. "I walked in on you doing the nasty with my best friend … in my own bed, the day after you dumped me … which, by the way, was a couple hours after I'd gotten kicked out of Stanford because Bryce _framed me for cheating_." He glared at her, hands braced on the edge of the Nerd Herd counter. If looks could kill, she'd be lying on the floor of the Buy More, exsanguinating. "You're right. The circumstances were far from ideal—and thank you for making me revisit them twice in as many days."

Jill folded her arms under her breasts, which had the not-so-accidental effect of accentuating her cleavage. "I made a terrible decision. I know that now. Won't you let me make it up to you?"

"Sure." The icy tone in his voice would've done Ellie proud. "You can do that right now … by leaving before my _girlfriend_ brings me lunch."

She straightened as the impact of his words sunk in. Then the kittenish expression on her face vanished, subsumed by something far more calculating. "I'm afraid I can't do that. Not without you."

"I'm not going anywhere with you." Chuck's voice was hard enough to cut diamonds.

A nasty smirk spread across her face. "I'm afraid you don't have a choice."

I'd heard enough. Setting the Thai food down, I stepped out of the aisle behind her. "Actually," I said, "he does."

Jill spun, looking entirely displeased to see me. Chuck, by contrast, was beaming … which was all that mattered to me.

"You again," she said, spitting out the words as if they tasted rotten.

"Me again," I agreed cheerfully. "As Chuck's girlfriend, I've come to bring him lunch. Whereas you are here because…"

"My presence here is none of your business. Unlike you, Chuck and I have history—and we have things we need to talk about … in private, if you don't mind."

I took a step closer, using our two-inch height differential to loom over her. "Actually, I do mind. I mind very much. And based on the conversation I just overheard, I think Chuck does too. I'd like to suggest that you leave."

She flicked her gaze over me. When her eyes met mine again, the expression in them was scornful, as if she'd assessed what she'd seen and was far from impressed. "Oh, you'd like to _suggest_, would you? What makes you think I give a flying fuck about what you suggest?"

I let my eyes slide toward Chuck for an instant. "I wish I could say that I understood what you saw in her, honey, but I'm coming up short. Was she always such a charmer?"

His eyebrows rose at the endearment, but thankfully, he played along. "Unlike a fine wine, she hasn't improved with age."

If I thought Jill had looked furious before, that was nothing to her expression now. She opened her mouth to say something—but I wasn't in the mood to listen. "I'm glad we're in agreement," I said, returning my attention to my nemesis. "And I retract my earlier statement. This isn't a suggestion—it's a demand. You need to go."

"Who do you think you are? You can't tell me what to do."

My gaze cut toward Chuck again; he nodded. "Well," I said, "it looks like I'm not the only one who'd like you to leave."

Her jaw set in a firm, stubborn line. "I'm not going anywhere."

I sighed. Making a scene hadn't been high on my list of priorities. "Yeah," I said, "you are." Ignoring her protests, I reached for her, putting a pressure point hold on her wrist and the crook of her elbow. "Let's go."

Jill winced in pain, and her eyes fixed on mine. In them, I saw both alarm and acknowledgment of my ability to cause her serious injury if she didn't comply. She stopped arguing—for now—and I marched her through the store, smiling at the people we passed as if to say, "Nothing to see here! Just two girls out on the town, having a great time."

We went out the sliding glass doors, and I saw her eyes dart to the place where the white van had been. If there'd been any doubt in my mind, it was gone now.

"Yeah, I don't know how you're going to get home either," I told her. "But I'm sure a resourceful woman like yourself can figure it out."

She bared her teeth like she'd like to bite me. "Who _are _you?"

I gave her the look right back. "I told you. I'm Chuck's girlfriend. I think a better question might be … who the hell are _you_?"

Her jaw snapped shut so hard, I could hear her teeth slam together. After a second, she unhinged it enough to say, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Hmmm." I dropped my hand from her arm. "I think it's safe to say who you're _not_ … a convincing actor. I don't know what your deal is, or what you want from Chuck … but I intend to find out. And when I do—well, rest assured you won't get a chance to hurt him twice."

And, turning on my heel before she could say another word, I walked back into the store.

I wound my way through the crowds until I made it back to the Nerd Herd desk, scooping up our Thai food en route. Chuck was still standing where I'd left him, looking appalled. "Sarah," he began, "I swear I had no idea she was going to show up here—"

"Of course you didn't." There was no doubt in my mind that Chuck had wanted her to leave, even before I'd showed up and made her an offer she couldn't refuse. "I'm not surprised, though. This is what I didn't want to get into this morning—but there's no time to talk about it now. It's not safe here. We need to go."

If I'd expected an argument, I didn't get one. "All right," he said. "Just let me clock out, and we're out of here."

I followed him to the break room, just to make sure Jill didn't have backup lying in wait—but it was empty aside from Jeff and Lester, the idiot twins. We extricated ourselves from them, and I waited as Chuck told his manager there was a family emergency, keeping an eye out for trouble. Jill didn't reemerge, though, and when we made it into the parking lot, she was nowhere to be seen.

We got into the Jeep, and I drove us back to Echo Park, calling Graham on the way. Something was definitely rotten in the state of Denmark, and we needed to get to the bottom of it—ASAP.

Graham was, thank God, in his office. As succinctly as possible, I explained what had just transpired and gave him the license plate number of the white van.

"I see." He sounded resigned—though unsurprised. "Jill Roberts is not affiliated with any of the other intelligence agencies," he said as I slowed for a red light. "I am concerned, however, that she might have ties to a close friend of her father's—a man named Bernie Ominsky."

"Her father?" I said in surprise, drawing a sharp look from Chuck. "Is he an agent? Or…"

Graham snorted. "Far from it. Ominsky, on the other hand … For some time, the Agency's been looking for someone known only by the name Carnivore, which we have reason to believe might be one of Ominsky's aliases. If they are indeed one and the same—and Ms. Roberts is working with him—then you should proceed with caution. Carnivore is said to be a ruthless killer—extremely dangerous." Graham's voice was as dry as if he were giving me a weather report.

Just fabulous. "Anything else I should know, sir?"

"A little background." I heard shuffling, as if he were moving papers around on his desk. "We suspect that Carnivore is involved in smuggling weapons and contraband for suspected rogue factions in the U.S., with the goal of weakening and undermining the government. He's proved quite elusive. If Ms. Roberts is indeed his accomplice—or his employee—you've done the Agency a great service by accurately assessing the situation before it could go any further. I retract my comments regarding your lack of objectivity, Agent Walker. Evidently your instincts are in no way compromised by your … involvement … with the asset."

"Thank you, sir." I did my best to keep any intimation of _I told you so _from my voice.

"Your backup is already in town to provide assistance, as we previously discussed. They also have the intel packet on Orion that you requested. I expect you to go into lockdown until further notice, Agent. Don't disappoint me."

I wanted to tell him that of course I wouldn't—when had I ever?—but of course, the phone had gone dead.

With a sigh, I sped up to change lanes and then glanced over at Chuck, who was staring at me, waiting for an explanation. "How much of that did you hear?"

"Enough to confuse me." He folded his arms across his chest. "Is Jill's father some kind of wanted criminal?"

"Not exactly." In as few words as I could manage, I summarized my suspicions about Jill, my earlier conversation with Graham, and the information that the Director had just shared with me.

When I was done, Chuck just shook his head. "So, if this is all true, she was probably using me the whole time back at Stanford." His voice was flat. "I wish I could say I'm surprised, but honestly, nothing surprises me anymore. But what the hell does she want now?"

"I don't know," I admitted, zipping left in front of oncoming traffic. Horns blared, but I ignored them. "Whatever it is, it can't be good. Maybe she and Ominsky are after the same thing the CIA is—your father. Or maybe they want something else altogether. Either way, we'll get to the bottom of it."

"This is ridiculous." He unfolded his arms and braced his hands on his knees. "Things have been going so well. I got my diploma—and that check. I met you. I'm finally going to be done with the Buy More and start my own company. And now this? I'm sure this kind of crap doesn't happen to normal people. Is this going to be what my life looks like from now on? And what about Ellie?" His voice arced upward, filled with alarm. "She's off today. What if whoever's after me has already gotten to her?"

I took one hand off the wheel and knotted my fingers through his. "I'll keep your family safe, Chuck," I vowed, squeezing his hand tight. "No matter what."

I saw his Adam's apple move as he swallowed. Then his shoulders relaxed, just the smallest bit. "I know you will. But I wish you didn't have to."

OoOoOoOoO

Still holding hands, we pulled up in front of Echo Park. I parked the Jeep and did a quick once-over with my mirrors before I got out. Nothing untoward—so far, so good.

Motioning for Chuck to stay put, I stepped onto the sidewalk and scanned the street. It looked like it usually did … a few pedestrians and cyclists, the typical amount of traffic. No sign of the white van, Jill, or Ominsky—not that I knew what he looked like. I was sure Graham would have his dossier waiting in my inbox shortly, with all the pictures I needed … but now was not the time to check.

"All right," I told Chuck, "come on. I'll take you home—then I need to pick up a few things at my apartment, and I'll come back over."

I didn't mention to him that the 'few things' I needed to get my hands on included an impressive arsenal of weapons. For one thing, if anyone was listening, I didn't want to give them that advantage; and for another, I didn't want to worry Chuck any more than necessary. I'd promised him I'd take care of him and his sister. I intended to keep that promise.

The courtyard was deserted. I escorted Chuck to his apartment and followed him inside, checking each room for intruders. Ellie was sitting on the couch, talking on the phone; she gave me a smile and a wave as I passed. Other than that, the apartment was empty.

Satisfied, I left, reminding Chuck to lock the door behind me. Then I crossed the courtyard to my own apartment, my senses on high alert.

My front door was locked, just as I'd left it. I slid the key in, felt the knob turn, stepped inside … and froze, scanning the living room.

Something was wrong.

I couldn't tell what it was. Nothing was out of place; there were no sounds that gave away someone's presence in my apartment. But something was off nonetheless. There was a familiar scent in the air, triggering a warning. I couldn't quite figure out what the scent was, or why it filled me with both nostalgia and concern … though not fear. Adrenaline spiking, I reached for my gun.

Then someone sprang from the shadows, launching themselves at me before I could pull my weapon. They careened into me and we both went flying, skidding across the floor until we hit a wall, dislodging the painting of the Mediterranean with which the CIA had thoughtfully outfitted my apartment. It fell off its hook and crashed to the floor, sending glass shattering everywhere.

Luckily, none of the shards found their mark in my skin. I was up and on my feet in an instant, circling my attacker—a lithe figure in black, their face covered with a ski mask. Not Jill; the build was all wrong. Where were their weapons? If they wanted to kill me, they could've shot at me the moment I stepped through the door. Which meant they wanted something else. I intended to find out what—right after I eliminated them as a threat.

Again, I went for my gun—and again, the figure anticipated my actions, lashing out with a roundhouse kick that caught my arm before I could close my fingers on it.

I'd had enough. Going on the offensive, I knocked my attacker to the floor and twisted their arm behind their back, pinning them. As I pressed my knee into their spine, opening my mouth to ask them who they were and what the hell they were doing in my apartment, the figure spoke … and ski mask or no ski mask, I recognized her amusement-laced voice all too well.

"You've still got it, Blondie," she said.

* * *

A/N: We are blown away by the number of reviews we've been receiving, from both longtime readers and new ones. This has spurred us to publish new chapters regularly—thank you all so much for your support. Oh—and in case you were wondering … the title of this chapter is excerpted from the proverb, 'All's fair in love and war,' which seems apropos.

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	13. Rhapsody in Red

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 13:** **Rhapsody in Red  
**

"Seriously?" I said, staring down at my captive with a mixture of exasperation and disbelief.

The confrontation was over, but the adrenaline was still surging through my body, coiling like a cobra about to strike. I knew the intruder—_knew _I knew her—but it wasn't easy to dismiss the emotions that had taken root as soon as I'd realized I wasn't alone in my apartment: Fear for Chuck and Ellie's safety; desperate hope that I'd survive long enough to protect them; determination not to let my feelings interfere with my duty. Sure, I'd worried about protecting myself and my partners before—but never someone I loved. It was a horribly vulnerable feeling … one that lingered long after I'd pinned Carina to the floor.

And it was her, all right. Even with her mask still on and every part of her clad in black BDUs, I would have known Carina's voice anywhere. In the recesses of my mind, a parody of a story my mom used to read to me echoed: _I would know it in a house. I would know it with a mouse…  
_

Carina was like that. She got under your skin, and before you knew it, you were thinking it had been _your_ idea to go along with her hair-brained schemes—like randomly attacking each other in the spirit of one-upmanship, for instance.

What did it say about me that, before Ellie, the closest thing I'd had to a real friend was a person I tended to compare to a parasite? A gorgeous, loyal, ninja-like parasite, but still …

Yeah, I was glad Carina was the one in my apartment, and not someone bent on putting a bullet through my skull … but she brought her own set of complications with her, as evidenced by the fact that my hip hurt where she'd kicked me, and my ribs were on fire. Of all the inconvenient times—

Carina wriggled an arm free and pulled off her ski mask, shaking out her hair. She grinned up at me, unrepentant. "Hey, partner."

"Graham sent _you_? Never mind—of course he did. I should have known." I eased off of her, glaring. "Why attack me, you freaking lunatic? You could've just said hello. Or better yet, called me to let me know you were in town. But no—breaking into my apartment and then launching yourself at me like a murderous human hand grenade was obviously the better choice."

"I wasn't trying to murder you. Think of this as … a test to see if you've lost your edge while you've been basking here in the 'burbs. I mean, really—this place has about as much panache as a porta potty. I thought I'd surprise you and see if you'd traded in your throwing knives for some Tupperware."

"You couldn't have just brought balloons and a sign?"

"You're pissed," Carina said, getting to her feet. She eyed me warily.

"And you're astute."

"What's the problem?" She brushed herself off, tiny bits of glass cascading to the floor. In typical Carina fashion, she didn't give them another glance. Someone else would clean them up for her—namely, me.

She wasn't looking at the glass, though. She _was_ looking at my face, pondering, a querying eyebrow arched.

I couldn't blame her for being confused. Carina and I had always tested each other like this, a game designed to keep each other's skills sharp … with an undertone of competition that kept things interesting. A competition that originated from her side … mainly.

It was still a game to her—but I was changing the rules. I didn't have time for this shit.

Ignoring her penetrating gaze, I stood up and stalked to the bedroom, in pursuit of the safe where I kept my weapons cache. Predictably, Carina followed. "The problem," I said, "other than your ill-timed sneak attack, is that our asset is in trouble. I was coming here to grab some more firepower. Things have taken a drastic turn for the worse in the past few hours and you'll need to be brought up to speed. Just like old times."

Carina snorted as I punched in the safe's combination. "Look … don't be mad at _me_, Blondie. I didn't ask to be reassigned to Snoresville. I was about to be seconded to the DEA, but I guess Graham thought he'd be doing you a favor by sending me here instead. 'Backup she can trust,' were his exact words."

I yanked what I needed from the safe and slammed it shut. "Fabulous."

"And," Carina continued, "he may have filled me in on what happened between you and Larkin. Seriously, that dude is seven shades of sexy. I would've thought that even the Ice Queen's undies would've melted in the face of such serious hotness. But no—sounds like you couldn't get rid of him fast enough. Now if it were me, rather than having him reassigned, I would've just handcuffed him to the bedpost and kept him around for a little after-mission _aperitif_."

She leered at me as I stuffed the additional weapons and ammo in a gym bag and turned to face her. "Bryce may have been hot—"

"So you _do_ admit it!" she crowed, interrupting me. "Maybe the spring thaw is coming after all."

I ignored her. "He may have been hot," I repeated, not willing to give her the satisfaction, "but he was also a total asshole. Arrogant … conceited … thought he was God's gift to women—not to mention he was as green as a jealous frog and about to get us both killed if I didn't insist on having him reassigned. Most importantly, though, he was a threat to this mission's success. Bryce turned out to be the same guy that screwed over our asset, got Chuck kicked out of college, and slept with his girlfriend afterwards. I mean … really? Fuck that guy."

Carina tugged her clothes straight, adjusting the pancake holster at the small of her back. "Well, that _is_ kind of the idea … but don't hold back, Blondie. Tell me what you really think."

"He's slimy, repulsive—thinks of women as something to acquire, like a magpie collecting shiny objects. When he figured out that I wouldn't be sleeping with him during this assignment, he went out of his way to find a cheap knockoff, instead of laying low like he was supposed to. How is that complimentary … or safe? I can't work with someone I can't trust—not after what happened with the squad."

"Lighten up, Francis. They do say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery." Her voice was bone dry.

"Yeah? Well, _I _say that it's insulting. Why not just get a blond blowup doll and be done with it?"

She gave the all-out, unselfconscious cackle reserved for her friends; marks and potential lovers only got to hear the throaty, I'm-too-sexy-for-my-sense-of-humor version. "One day you _will_ melt, Blondie. Someday, someone's gonna come along and bang down those icy walls of yours … probably packing a freakin' howitzer. I just hope I'm around to see it."

The image should've made me laugh. Instead, I thought of Chuck—of our lovemaking—and blushed before I could help it. I tried to turn away to hide my face, but there was no hiding it from Carina—she knew me all too well. Like a cat who'd spied a particularly juicy mouse, she pounced, her claws out.

"Aha! So the Great Thaw has begun. Come on. Tell me. Who started the fire? I can't wait to meet him. Or is it a _her_? Whoever it is, I plan on chronicling their unprecedented accomplishment in song and legend for years to come."

"Drop it, Red," I ordered, strapping on my ankle holster and glancing through the window to make sure no one else had entered the courtyard. Yeah, the surveillance might have been invasive—but damn if I didn't wish it wasn't still in place. Back then, I'd thought the CIA was the biggest threat to the Bartowskis; now I knew better.

"Hell if I will." She followed me back into the living room. "If I have to hang out here in Boresville, you might as well make it worth my while. Is he tall, dark, and handsome? Does he sing you love songs and bring you flowers? Or maybe he finally scratched that itch in just the right way?"

"You need to quit while you're ahead. I'm serious."

"Come on. You gotta give me _something_." She pouted, sticking out her full lower lip and widening her eyes.

I knew Carina well enough to know she wouldn't let it go until I acquiesced—and we really needed to get back to Chuck and Ellie. "He's kind. Decent. Brilliant. A gentleman."

"I _knew _it." She did a little hip-shimmy. "Is he also an officer?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Okay, not a military man." She bent the index finger of one hand back with the other, as if ticking off my potential suitor's qualities. "Kind … decent … brilliant … I've got it! You're dating Gandhi. I have to admit … I never would've guessed you'd have a thing for a tiny, bespectacled, bald peacemaker in a robe and diapers. But hey … whatever trips your trigger. Let that freak flag fly, girlfriend."

I'd had enough. Giving me a hard time was one thing; mocking someone who'd been nominated for the freakin' Nobel Peace Prize was an all-new low—even by Carina's standards. "Gandhi's dead. He was assassinated—an outcome that I'd really like to avoid for our asset and his family. Can we discuss this later? I need to give you a rundown on what happened today and who we're supposed to be protecting. Speaking of which—what's your cover? Still going by Carina Miller?"

She nodded. "Sarah Walker?"

"Yep. Okay, so here's the sitrep." As Carina slipped out of her BDUs, I gave her a short rundown on Jill's reappearance and her suspected ties to Carnivore; what had gone down at the Buy More; and all of the relevant information on the Bartowskis and Devon. "And then you decided it'd be a good time for an ambush," I concluded. "We've already wasted too much time standing here reminiscing. We need to get back over there."

"Hold on, Walker." She reached behind the open door to my bedroom, where she'd apparently stashed a briefcase. "Here. This is the intel packet on Orion you requested."

I sighed, exasperated. "You could've told me that earlier," I said, taking the folder from her. "All right, come on."

She followed me obediently enough—but I could hear her humming a song that took me a moment to place: "I'll Stop the World and Melt With You."

Honestly, sometimes I thought Carina had a death wish.

We crossed the courtyard, and her humming stopped, like someone had flicked it off with a switch. Glancing up, I saw Devon walking up to the door of his apartment, still in scrubs. I looked back at Carina, trying to figure out why she'd suddenly stopped antagonizing me. Devon had all of his limbs attached; no one was aiming a gun at him; he wasn't covered in blood—

"Who is _that_?" she said, _sotto voce_. "Is that Mama Bear Bartowski's boyfriend? Because this bear would certainly find his bed not too _hard_ … not too soft … but jusssst right."

Oh. That was why.

"Yes, that's Devon," I hissed, resigned. "Would you cut it out before he hears you?"

"Man." She fanned herself in exaggerated fashion. "If he were a library book, I'd have to peel back the cover and sneak a peek."

"Like you've ever been to the library. Oh—hey, Devon," I said, as he caught sight of us and waved.

He waited politely for us to catch up with him. "Hi, Sarah. Who's your friend?"

"This is Carina," I said, giving her the evil eye.

She extended her hand to him, looking up through her lashes. Somehow she'd managed to transform herself from femme fatale to demure princess, without so much as a change of costume. It was a natural talent. "You must be Devon," she said in the throaty voice that went with the laugh. "I'd ask what you do for a living, aside from being sexy, but the scrubs kind of give it away."

He took her hand, looking speechless and overwhelmed. Carina had that effect on people. "I—well, I'm a cardiothoracic surgeon …"

"Rich _and _hot." She fluttered her eyelashes. "Ellie's a lucky woman."

"Cut it out," I said, glaring at her as Devon retrieved his hand with what looked like relief and unlocked the front door. We walked in behind him—only to be accosted by Ellie as soon as we made it across the threshold.

"Sarah, thank God," she said. Her hair was a mess, as if she'd been running her hands through it. "Chuck told me about what's going on—but I don't fully understand. I take it you were right about Jill? Chuck said something about a friend of her father's—and a white van—"

Seeing her like this, I felt more than a tinge of dismay. When I'd left her this morning, everything had been fine. Better than fine, actually; I'd helped her clean the kitchen until it was spotless and we'd chatted the whole time, the way I imagined good friends would. Now, she'd worked herself into a fever pitch of anxiety. I took her hands, trying to calm her down.

"It'll be okay, Ellie. Where's Chuck?"

"He's in his room. He's okay. But what the hell is happening?"

Dropping her hands, I gestured to Carina. "This is the backup I told you about. We'll make sure you're safe." I introduced Carina—who somehow managed not to say anything inappropriate—then took a deep breath and filled her and Devon in on everything that had transpired since I'd left their apartment a few hours before.

When I finished, Ellie was pale. "So your boss thinks Jill is working for this Carnivore guy … who might be after our dad too? Why? Do you think it's to get his hands on whatever Dad was working on before he disappeared? Why is it so valuable all of a sudden … after so many years? And what do you think Jill would've done with Chuck if you hadn't been there today?" She leaned against Devon, who put a comforting arm around her.

"I'm not sure yet, Ellie. But I intend to find out. You said Chuck was in his room?" I was sure he was fine, but not being able to put my eyes on him made me nervous.

She nodded. "I don't know what he's doing. He just said he had something important he needed to look into."

"Okay. I'll be back in a minute. Come on, Carina." Much as I wanted to have Chuck to myself, I had to introduce her to him sometime; not to mention, I didn't trust what she might say or do if left in the living room with Ellie and Devon. I didn't think she'd try to seduce Devon while Ellie was standing right there, but skirting the edge of the inappropriate was her idea of a good-time Tuesday.

Carina trailed after me, lips curved in amusement. "Chuck's bedroom, huh? Isn't that a bit … daring for you, Walker?"

I bit my tongue to keep from snapping at her. She couldn't resist baiting me. That didn't mean I had to fall for it every time. Luckily, my silence seemed to inspire the same in her, because she didn't say another word until we reached Chuck's doorway.

The door was open, the bed neatly made … unlike the way we'd left it this morning. Chuck sat at his computer, fingers flying over the keyboard, his eyes fixed on the screen. I'd never seen him look like this before—so focused, so confident, so … hot. I stared—until he heard us in the doorway and looked up, his trademark smile breaking across his face.

"Hey, Sarah," he said, his voice warm. Next to me, Carina stiffened when Chuck stood to his full height to greet us.

"Kind," she muttered under her breath. "Decent. Brilliant. No way. Walker, you didn't."

_Shit.  
_

"Introduce me to your friend, Sarah." Carina's voice was pure silk.

Carina had always wanted everything I had—from weapons to outfits to skills. Apparently, men were no exception. I fought down my rising jealousy and said, "Chuck, this is Carina Miller—my new partner. Carina, this is Chuck Bartowski."

"My, my … aren't you a tall drink of water." She strode into his room like she owned it, pausing next to the bed. Her fingers trailed over the comforter suggestively. "And I have to admit that suddenly I'm feeling quite … thirsty." She pushed down on the bed as if checking its springs, grinned salaciously at Chuck, and stalked toward him. "Sarah's told me so much about you—but she didn't mention how handsome you are. We're going to be spending a lot of time together … sometimes in extremely close proximity—if we get lucky."

I suppressed the urge to deck her. Right now, I had bigger concerns. "What were you working on, Chuck?"

He'd been staring at Carina like she was some kind of predatory animal that had somehow found its way into his bedroom. At the sound of my voice, he startled, refocusing on me. "Can I speak freely?"

"She's my partner," I said, swallowing back a sigh. "If it's about the mission, go right ahead."

"Oh. Okay. Well," he said, sitting back down and gesturing at the screen, "I just got access to Jill's Stanford email account. I can see everything she ever sent—or received. I figured it would be a good starting place to look for clues." He gave a self-deprecating shrug.

My eyes widened. "Wait a minute. Are you saying that in the ten minutes we've been apart, you hacked into your ex's email account on Stanford's private servers? How the hell did you do that?"

He shrugged again. "I'm good with computers. It's what I do."

No matter how blasé he sounded, I knew what a big deal this was. Stanford's security system had to be solid; anything else would be a tremendous liability. For him to be able to finagle his way into Jill's email amount so quickly was beyond impressive. I vowed never to underestimate him again.

Unfortunately, Carina was equally impressed. As I walked past her to hand Chuck the packet of information on Orion, she cooed, "Oh … I do love a smart man. Smart is the new sexy, that's what I always say."

I had never heard Carina say anything like that in her life. Usually, sexy was the new sexy … a perception that was quickly followed by … well, sex. For what felt like the fiftieth time today, I glared at her.

"Of course," she said, smirking at me, "it helps if the man is sexy in his own right, too—which you definitely are. Even Walker here seems to have noticed … and she's normally immune to men. It's like she was vaccinated at birth."

Chuck's mouth fell open. "What—"

That was it. I dropped the intel packet on Chuck's desk and grabbed Carina by the shoulder. "Can I talk to you?"

"I'm right here, Walker. Ready and willing…" she let the words linger before continuing, her eyes steady on Chuck's face— "to give advice."

For the love of God. "Privately." My fingers tightened on her shoulder, hard enough to hurt.

"Of course." Unfazed, she dropped Chuck a wink. "Later, Chuckles."

Barely able to suppress a growl, I marched her out the door.

OoOoOoOoO

I herded Carina down the hallway, past Ellie and Devon, and out the door, gritting my teeth to keep from yelling at her in front of them. But when the door shut behind us, I let go of her shoulder and let her have it.

"You … need … to … stop," I said, emphasizing each word to let her know I meant it.

She merely tossed her hair, doing her best impression of an innocent bystander. "Stop what?"

"You know what. But if I need to spell it out … stop messing around with Chuck and Devon. They're off limits, got it?" I stared her down, waiting to see if it sunk in. "This isn't like other missions we've been on, Carina. You need to leave them both alone."

Carina looked puzzled. "What are you talking about? I get the deal with Devon. He may be hot as a house fire, but he's Ellie's man. But Chuck? He's just a mark. What's the big deal?"

"Actually," I said, breathing deep to make sure I didn't lose my temper even more than I already had, "he's an asset. More importantly, he's _my_ asset."

"Well," she drawled, her eyes half-lidded, "I didn't actually get to see his ass. But if it's as fine as the rest of him, you might need to share."

_Don't punch her. You need her. Don't punch her. _I repeated it over and over like a mantra, my eyes fixed on the shimmering surface of the fountain to avoid having to look at her smug expression. "Chuck's ass is none of your business."

Her tone was sharp. "And it's yours—that's what you're saying? You're on the right track, Walker—and the wrong one, too. This _is _my business—which it seems you've forgotten. And business means you don't get attached. You don't _date _civilians_. _And you definitely don't fall for assets … a cardinal rule that I'm beginning to suspect you've violated."

I didn't say a word. How could I?

Carina circled me, like a wolf sizing up its prey. I stood still, tolerating her scrutiny, trying to keep my face blank—but something about my expression must've given me away, because she came to a sudden halt, looking horrified. "Oh my God. You have, haven't you? You've fallen for the cute nerd in there that you're supposed to be protecting. What the hell is wrong with you, Walker? Are you fucking crazy?"

"Caring about Chuck isn't crazy." I knew I sounded like a petulant child, but I couldn't help it. After all, she was right … falling for Chuck went against every bit of training I'd ever received. Frankly, I was surprised I still had a job.

"Knock it off, Walker." She sat down on the edge of the fountain. "You can't be serious. Cute or not, he's just an asset. We'll get this mission done and you'll be moving on. How can you even think about protecting someone if you're emotionally involved with them? It's dangerous. Back the hell off before you get him—or more importantly, one of _us_—killed."

I lifted my chin. Yeah, my decision to be with Chuck might be inadvisable—but it was the best choice I'd ever made, career or no career, and I wasn't about to start apologizing for it. "Too late," I told her.

Her eyes widened. "What are you talking about?"

"It's too late to back off. Besides, I don't want to. I … he's special, Carina. I've never met anyone like him. I'm willing to take the risk."

She got to her feet, pacing the flagstones. "What happened? You've only been here a week. I've known you for four years, and you've never talked about anyone this way. Not even close. Is it something in the water? Are you lying to me? Or … is it possible you actually feel this way?"

"You just have to get to know him." It was all I could think to say. "Then you'll understand."

Carina edged closer, her eyes on my face. "Yeah? I'll take that as an invitation, Blondie."

Damn it. Whether she was threatened by my feelings for Chuck—because if it could happen to me, it could sure as hell happen to her—or whether, as usual, she just coveted what was mine, the problem remained the same: What I'd meant as a simple statement of fact, she'd interpreted as a challenge.

"Chuck is taken," I said, straightening to my full height. "I know you and I test each other all the time … but this isn't a game. I'm not playing, Carina—and while I might need a partner, I asked for one that would have my back … not stab me in it. Am I clear?"

A slow smile lifted her lips. "Crystal. And may the best agent win."

"Are you even listening?" I took a step toward her, consumed by a sudden desire to remove the self-satisfied smirk from her face. "I just said this wasn't a game, Carina. Do you really want to go there?"

"Relax, Sarah." Lazily, she twirled one auburn lock around her finger. "Did you lose your sense of humor along with your professional ethics? Because it's looking a lot like that to me."

I counted to ten, reminding myself of all the reasons why entering into a slugfest with Carina right now would be a bad idea. This was just who she was. The more I wanted something, the more curious about it she became—and the more she wanted it, too. The trick would be to appear to care less than I did … at least in her presence. Then, maybe, she'd lose interest and leave me—and Chuck—alone.

"Whatever," I said, managing a one-shouldered shrug. "Let's get back inside and find out what Chuck pulled up on that email server. We've been out here long enough."

OoOoOoOoO

When we got back to Chuck's room, he was still sitting at his computer. I was sure he'd heard us coming down the hall, but his eyes were fixed on the screen and he didn't turn around right away. I looked at him—the determined set of his mouth, the tilt of his head, the way he projected willpower, as if he'd force whatever was on the screen to do his bidding—and was swept by the intensity of my feelings for him. Just a week ago, his life had looked totally different. He hadn't met me. He wasn't caught up in the CIA's search for his father. He didn't have a stalker ex-girlfriend who was possibly embroiled in an evil smuggler's machinations. Right now, he'd be within his rights to have a nervous breakdown … but instead, he was sitting calmly at his computer, using the skills at his disposal to ameliorate the situation. Helping, the only way he could.

He was truly extraordinary.

Carina was watching me, her eyes narrowed—but before she could say anything, Chuck turned, gesturing at us to come in. "Want to see what I've found? It's pretty interesting."

"Sure." I forced the word out. Now was not the time for emotion. Now was the time for solutions.

Carina and I came to stand behind him. She stood closer than was strictly necessary, but I ignored it. The more of a production I made, the more of a problem she'd cause. "What did you find?" I asked.

"These." He pointed at the screen. "They're all emails from the same person … Veronica Kysonim. Which I thought was suspicious in itself."

"Not a fan of the prettiest girl in Riverdale, I take it?" Carina said. "Perhaps you're a Betty guy at heart. She is blond, after all. No worries, Chuckles … I've got nothing against love triangles, no matter how bizarre. And I can be patient."

I had no idea what she was talking about, but Chuck snorted—in incredulity or amusement, I couldn't tell. Apparently suffering no such confusion, Carina shot me a triumphant glance. _I made him laugh_, the look said. _The next one's on you._

In response, I kicked her in the shin, hard enough to make her wince. She glared at me, leaning down to rub the bruise; I shrugged and shot her a look right back. _Keep fucking with me, _it said. _See where it gets you.  
_

"'Kysonim' is an anagram for 'Ominsky,'" Chuck said, oblivious to the byplay that was taking place behind him. "And 'Veronica' is an anagram for 'Carnivore.' I thought it was reasonable to assume the emails might be from him … so I kept digging."

"And what did you find?" I kept my voice level. Just because Carina was auditioning for a role as court jester didn't mean I had to be next in line.

"The messages mention meeting times … times that I know Jill was missing. I remember, because I'd make reservations for dinner or to see a show … even to go out of town … and she'd cancel at the last minute. I'm good with dates. They stick in my head." He pointed at the screen. "So that caught my attention. And look at this. Beneath their name, this quote appears in the signature every time."

"'Give me a lever and a place to stand and I will move the earth. Give me a fulcrum, and I shall move the world,'" I read aloud. "Well, that's … ambitious."

"It's by Archimedes," Chuck said, scrolling through email after email. "You know, the Law of the Lever."

Neither Carina nor I said anything, and he twisted his head to look up at us. "There's a shorter version of the quote. Maybe that one will be more familiar? 'Give me a lever long enough and a place to stand, and I will move the world.' It's a theory of geometry, really. Does it mean anything to either of you?"

I shook my head. Next to me, Carina did the same.

"It's on every single one. I'd think the emails were from a mathematics professor … but they'd have to be pretty serious about their course expectations to write, 'We won't tolerate failure.'" He tapped the screen, where the line appeared.

"And harboring delusions of grandeur," Carina pointed out. "Given their use of the royal 'we.'"

"So she was working for someone," I said. "Someone with big plans … who was part of a larger organization. This isn't good—but it does fit the theory Graham shared with me. I'll have to pass these on to the CIA's analysts … they're a treasure trove. Chuck, what's the best way for you to share them with me?"

"Well," he began, looking pleased, "I can just—"

His phone rang, interrupting him. He glanced down at it—and then back up at us, puzzled. "I don't recognize the number."

"Answer it." Carina's voice was all business.

Chuck looked at me.

"Do what she says," I told him. "But put it on speaker so we can hear."

Drawing a deep breath, Chuck obeyed. "Hello?" he said.

I'd hoped it would be someone trying to sell him insurance, or an over-eager political fundraiser. But no.

"Hi, Chuck," Jill said. "Miss me?"

"Like a root canal." He pushed his chair back, lacing his hands behind his head. His eyes slid to mine, and he mouthed, _What do I do?  
_

I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen from his desk. _Keep her talking, _I scribbled—and then, for Carina's benefit: _Jill Roberts.  
_

"What do you want?" Chuck said in the direction of the phone.

Jill sighed, as if dealing with him was her cross to bear. "I tried to do this the easy way. We could have had such fun, Chuck."

"I think we might have different definitions of fun." Chuck's voice was dry.

"That's not the way I remember it. Oh, well. Much as I'd like to take a romp down memory lane, I'm tired of playing games." She paused, and I had the distinct sense that she was enjoying herself. "If you ever want to see your father alive again, we need to meet."

Chuck's jaw dropped. His eyes flicked to me, to Carina, then back to the phone. He didn't say a word.

Shit, shit, shit. They had Orion? If this was the truth, and not a bluff, then we were all in trouble.

"Chuck? You still there?" There was a hint of amusement in her voice.

He reached for the pen, his fingers shaking. _What should I say?  
_

My mind raced, trying to sort through our options. _You choose the place, _I wrote back. _Somewhere public. It'll give you control.  
_

Chuck gripped the edge of the desk, so hard his fingers turned white. "Why do you have my father? What could you possibly want with him?"

She laughed, a scornful, dismissive sound that made me want to reach through the phone and throttle her. "I'm afraid that's really not your concern, Chuck."

"You made it my concern when you called me and threatened me and my family." Despite the stunned expression on his face, Chuck didn't sound afraid. He sounded furious. "I haven't seen my father in over a decade. What makes you think holding him over my head will even work? He walked out on me and my sister. Why should I give a crap whether he lives or dies?"

"Maybe you should, maybe you shouldn't." Her voice was light, careless. "But I know you, Chuck. You're a _good person_." She spat the last three syllables, like maybe she'd meant to say he was a child molester and the wrong words had slipped out instead. "It wouldn't matter whether your dad deserved the Humanitarian Award or the death penalty. You'd still put yourself on the line for him."

He stared at the phone, rubbing his upper arms as if he were cold. "How do I know you're not lying?"

"Good question. Here." There was another pause, then a grating sound, as if something heavy were being dragged across a floor. "Hey, genius," Jill said, away from the phone. "There's someone who wants to talk to you. In fact, you might be seeing him very soon. But first, he'd love to hear you say a few words."

Sweat had broken out on Chuck's forehead. I could see him trembling. More than anything, I wanted to put my arms around him … but I couldn't. Instead I stood there, feeling his pain as intensely as if it were my own, as a man's voice came across the line, rough-edged and desperate.

"Chuck, don't listen to them. Don't do anything they ask. What they want—nothing's worth that sacrifice, especially not—"

There was a thud, and then a grunt, as if the man was trying to suppress a cry. She'd hurt him somehow. Not badly, I imagined—she needed him—but enough.

I watched Chuck's face, expecting to see horror reflected there—but instead he sat up straight, his eyes fixed on the phone with the same intensity I'd seen when Carina and I had interrupted him mid-hack. Something about what was happening on the other end of the line had flagged his curiosity.

"Be quiet," Jill said to Orion, and then, to Chuck, "Satisfied?"

"What did you do to him?" Chuck's voice was taut with fury ... but something about it seemed feigned. His eyes were bright—but with determination, not rage.

"Oh, calm down, Chuck_. _Nothing a few stitches won't cure. Right, genius?" There was another thud, and then a gasp.

"Prove it. Bring him back, so I can ask him a question … in case something goes wrong and I never get another chance." He leaned forward, as if he could compel her to obey.

"Oh, fine. But this is getting tiresome. Sit up," she said, directing her voice away from the speaker. "Your progeny has a pressing query to pose."

One moment ticked by, two … and then Orion said, "Son?"

"I just have one question," Chuck said, and I could swear he was making a deliberate effort to sound pathetic. "When you went out for cigarettes that night … why didn't you come back? What happened to you?"

There was a hitching noise on the other end of the line, as if hearing the question hurt. "I'm so sorry, Chuck. I always intended to come back to you and Ellie. But then they—"

I heard another thud, and then the sound of a man wheezing. "Shut up," Jill said. "That's enough. I'll repeat myself just once, Chuck. If you want to see your father alive again, we need to meet. Now."

Chuck drew another deep, shaky breath. "Fine. The Santa Monica Pier," he said, his eyes on mine. "Midnight."

"Developed a sudden fondness for Ferris wheels, have you?" She laughed, the sound carefree, and I spared a moment to wonder if Jill Roberts was a sociopath. "Fine with me. The Pier, in front of the wheel, at twelve. But I'd better not see that blond bitch with you. If I get a hint that she's there, consider your reunion with your father officially … terminated."

"Fine," Chuck said, biting out the single syllable.

"Say bye to Daddy," she said—and then the line went dead.

Chuck looked from me to Carina, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I think that went well."

"Really?" Carina said. "I wouldn't have pegged you for the sadistic sort, but what do I know? A little bit _Revenge of the Nerds, _a little bit _Silence of the Lambs_…"

"Be quiet, Carina." I resisted the urge to kick her again. "What do you mean, Chuck?"

He stood up, pacing the room. The words spilled out, tripping over each other. "That wasn't my dad, Sarah. He never called me Chuck … only Charles. And he didn't go out for a pack of cigarettes the day he left. He never smoked … was fanatic about it. And he left promising us pancakes, not to get Marlboros. Whoever they have, it isn't my father. It's a trick. A trap."

The smile on his face spread to my own, as if it were contagious—partially from the knowledge that Jill didn't have Orion and partially because the odds had suddenly shifted in our favor. "Really," I said, drawing out the word. "In that case … I have a plan."

* * *

A/N: We apologize for submitting our weekly update a little late in the day. This particular week has been completely crazy and we've spent most of today just trying to catch up—Emily being the trouper that she is on Mother's Day was nothing short of heroic in my book. We've also been tinkering around with ASITHOC for an exhumation as well as a new fic of Neil's that's completely AU called 'The Heart of Eden,' that we're really excited about. It might take a while to come to fruition, but it's in the works.

Your support has been awe-inspiring and gives us the drive to continue these types of projects. Your thoughts inspire us, more than you'll ever know. Please don't stop sharing them.

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	14. Out of the Shadows

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 14: Out of the Shadows** **  
**

I did have a plan—albeit a risky one. And thinking about acting on it terrified me.

If Chuck were any another asset, using him as bait wouldn't have bothered me nearly as much. Nevertheless, I knew it was the right thing to do—our best shot at getting the drop on Jill and whoever she was working with. And Chuck seemed to be willing to do his part … right? Still, if things went sideways and I lost him...

I shivered at the thought.

Even Carina seemed to realize how nervous the idea made me. She'd stopped cracking snide jokes and coming on to Chuck. Instead, she stood resolutely by my side when I made the call to Graham and told him about Chuck's conversation with Jill, keeping my voice as level as possible. The last thing I wanted was for Graham to think my relationship with Chuck had compromised me to the point of needing to be pulled off the job.

"I'd like to request a strike team to help cover the pier tonight," I concluded. "We're going to call Roberts' bluff, and I'd prefer to have as much backup as possible when we do. If she brings a team of her own, we can take them all down and get to the bottom of what's really going on."

"Consider it done, Agent Walker." I heard the squeak of his chair's wheels as he pushed back from his desk. "After our last conversation, I thought something like that might be necessary, so I took the liberty of assembling a task force. I'll set up a meeting with their team leader at one of our CIA facilities near Santa Monica so he can be briefed and brought up to speed."

Foresight like this was what made Graham such a skilled strategist, even if he could be Machiavellian as hell. Knowing that this task force was comprised of people he'd chosen in advance, rather than a ragtag group put together on the fly, gave me some comfort. "Thank you, sir."

"Do you have pen and paper, Agent? You'll need the address."

I grabbed for the pad and pen I'd used during our conversation with Jill. "Go ahead."

I wrote down the address, told him I'd report in post-mission, and ended the call. Then I turned to face Chuck.

"Are you sure you're comfortable doing this? Because if not, we can find another way."

He'd been pacing the room as I spoke with Graham. At my question, though, he stopped and nodded.

"I'm absolutely sure." His face was as grim as I'd seen it. "Jill's obviously been on my shit list for quite some time, but this is different. It's one thing to cheat on me and betray my trust; it's something else entirely to endanger my life and the lives of the people I care about." He came to stand in front of me, cupping my cheek. "Yeah, this scares the hell out of me, but Sarah … I'd do anything to protect the people I love."

Puzzled, I looked into his eyes. They were filled with such emotion. Was he talking about his family? Or did he mean … me?

He cleared his throat, his hand dropping to his side. "What are we going to do about Ellie and Devon? If Jill's really working with this Carnivore guy, then it's not just her who's after me … it's a team of people—like whoever was in that white van. We have no idea what they're capable of. For all we know, luring me to meet with Jill is a trick, a way they can come here and get whatever they're after … which might include Ellie and Devon. If you and Carina are with me, who's going to be keeping them safe?"

It took me a moment to refocus my thoughts. Of course he hadn't been talking about me. He'd meant his sister, and by extension, her boyfriend. And he was right … we had to figure out a way to make sure none of Jill's cohorts could get their hands on anyone with ties to Chuck's father.

But first, we had to tell Ellie what was going on … a task that I wasn't looking forward to in the slightest.

"Of course, you're right," I told him, with a distinct sense of resignation. "At the very least, I think she and Devon should stay in a hotel tonight. Let's go talk to them, and then we need to head out and meet our contact."

We made our way back into the kitchen, where I could hear cupboard doors opening and closing. Carina was still quiet, which usually meant that she was thinking about something. In this case, I was fairly sure that _something _was the way Chuck had seen through Jill's façade … and the ease with which he'd hacked into Stanford's email servers. Carina flirted the way other people breathed; I wasn't sure she could help it. And yes, biased though I might be, Chuck _was _cute as hell. Still, in the two brief encounters they'd had, he'd managed to take her by surprise. There was a fine mind behind her seductress act, and I was sure that mind was ticking, thinking about the best way to handle the meet-up at the pier and how well Chuck could be trusted to take care of himself out in the field when faced with spur-of-the-moment decisions …

Ellie and Devon were at the counter, making sandwiches. I could hear him talking to her, his voice a low, consoling rumble. They turned when we came into the room, and Ellie set the knife she was holding down on the cutting board.

"Sarah," she said, "what the hell is going on? I'm freaking out here."

If she was freaking out now, how would she feel when I'd filled her in on the plan? Drawing a deep breath, I told her about Chuck's email discoveries, his conversation with Jill, and what needed to happen next.

The more I spoke, the more her jaw clenched. And when I finished, her response was succinct. "Are you people crazy?"

"It's the best plan we have, Ellie," Carina countered, speaking up for the first time since we'd entered the kitchen. "The only one, really. This way, we'll have the element of surprise."

Ellie took a menacing step toward her. "You are _not _using my little brother as bait! How can you possibly think that this is a good idea? He's not a CIA agent or even some kind of Rambo wannabe. He's never even held a gun, for Christ's sake!"

"We'll be right there with him, Ellie." I tried to sound comforting. "He'll never be alone."

"So what? You can't guarantee his safety. Back me up here, Devon," she said, turning her glare on him. "Tell them this isn't okay."

From what I knew of Devon—which, admittedly, wasn't much—he seemed like the type of guy who was happiest when everyone around him was in a positive state of mind. In this case, it was impossible to please Ellie and be in accordance with what I was proposing. No matter what he said, someone was bound to disagree. He looked from Ellie to me, then shrugged and raised his hands, palms-up. "I don't know if it's okay or not. This is so far beyond my area of expertise, I've got no idea what's right."

I might not be a relationship expert, but I was pretty sure that this was a poor choice of words. Disagreeing with Ellie Bartowski about anything that mattered to her was a dicey proposition, at best. Disagreeing with her when her little brother's life was on the line … that might just earn you a permanent place on what Chuck would call her shit list.

She rounded on Devon, bristling like a cat whose tail had been stomped on. "What do you mean, you have no idea what's right? This is so far from right, right disappeared in the rearview mirror hours ago! If you even _think_ this is acceptable, then—"

"Hold on, Ellie." Chuck stepped further into the kitchen, cutting her off before she could finish whatever threat she'd been about to make. "I'm okay with this. Really."

She drew herself to her full height. "Of course you are. You'd do anything for anyone. You always think of yourself last, baby brother, and I love you for it. But that's why I have to look out for you. I'm not going to let anyone use you, if I can help it—never again."

"They're not using me. I volunteered to do this. And I trust Sarah and Carina to keep me safe."

"You just met Carina an hour ago! How can you trust her? Honestly, Chuck, sometimes you remind me of Charlie Brown." Ellie's eyes were suspiciously bright. "And this time, I'm not going to let anyone yank away the damn football."

His lips twitched. "What's the football in this scenario, sis?"

She was not amused. "Your _life!_"

"Okay, look." He crossed his arms and took a cleansing breath. "I know I just met Carina—but Sarah trusts her, and that's good enough for me. Either way, we can't go on like this, hiding and worrying, with everything hanging over our heads. I'd rather confront it straight on. I'm tired of giving in and running away. I've been doing that kind of thing since the Stanford debacle. But now … I'm ready to fight back. Besides, we're Bartowskis. We don't quit when things get tough."

Silence followed his little speech. Finally Ellie spoke, her voice smaller than usual. "Chuck, are you sure?"

"I am." He wrapped his arms around her. "I'm absolutely sure."

"Because I can't lose you, Chuck. You're the only family I have left." I couldn't see Ellie's face, but I was pretty sure she was crying. "Promise me you won't do anything stupid—that you won't try to be a hero."

Patting her back awkwardly, he stepped away. "I promise. And I need you to promise me something too—that you'll stay somewhere else tonight. If Carina and Sarah are with me, keeping me safe, that means no one's here watching over you. Promise me you and Devon will stay at a hotel … just in case."

Her gaze went to me and Carina. "Do you really think that's necessary?"

"I do," I said, putting as much conviction into my voice as I could manage. "Not forever, of course. Just until we get this resolved. And make no mistake—it _will _be resolved. I'd like to bring Jill in alive, if possible … but if it comes down to her or Chuck … well, then there's really no choice, is there?"

Ellie drew a deep breath. "Okay. Fine. But I want to go on record that I still don't like any of this … at all. I can't believe we're having this conversation—I mean, I always thought Jill was a bitch, but I never imagined that she'd actually do something to threaten Chuck's life. I feel like I'm in a bad movie."

"I don't blame you, Ellie." Carina sounded more sympathetic than I'd imagined she was capable of. Maybe it was an act—or maybe she really did feel empathy for the Bartowskis' situation. Even I couldn't tell. "But it's not a movie—it's an unfortunate reality. And the sooner we deal with it, the sooner you can get back to your normal lives."

OoOoOoOoO

Ellie and Devon threw an overnight bag together, and we all walked out of the apartment, locking the door behind us. I glanced around the courtyard, scanning for threats, and saw Carina doing the same … but nothing looked out of the ordinary. If our enemies were here, they were good.

Carina and I were leading the way, and I could feel the weight of Ellie's eyes on me as we walked. The overwhelming responsibility settled onto my shoulders, heavy and suffocating. What if I couldn't do this? And what if I _could_? What did it say about me that I was willing to put the man I was falling for in harm's way … and all for the sake of the job? What the _hell_ was wrong with me?

"Quit your brooding, Walker," Carina said as I unlocked the Jeep and slid behind the wheel. "You need to get your head in the game. I get it—this situation is messing you up—but you need to be at your best … and this isn't it."

Her tone was sharp, and my instinct was to snap at her—but I reined myself in at the last moment. She was right. I had to do better than this … somehow. I nodded in acknowledgment as Chuck climbed into the back seat, watching Ellie and Devon get into their car. Ellie had called ahead to make a reservation at the Hilton Garden Inn; we would follow them to make sure they got there safely, and then go on to the rendezvous point near Santa Monica.

As we drove, Carina and I both kept our heads on a swivel, glancing in the mirrors repeatedly, looking for tails. Again, I didn't see anyone … but that didn't mean they weren't following us, just that if they _were_ there … they were pros.

We dropped Ellie and Devon off at the Hilton, and Ellie leaned into the window to hug Chuck goodbye. "Take care of him," she said when she stepped back, her gaze intent on my face.

"I will."

"And Sarah," she said, her voice softening, "take care of yourself, too."

Before I had a chance to process this, she turned away from the car and headed towards the hotel lobby. Struggling to hold back tears, I put the Jeep in drive and pulled out of the portico.

"So," I said when we were back on Verdugo Avenue and I'd pulled myself together, "given what Jill had to say about me, Carina will be the one watching your back tonight, Chuck. Jill would be stupid to expect you to come alone—and you didn't promise that, after all. You just promised you wouldn't bring _me. _So, you won't. Carina won't be with you either—but she'll be as close as she can be without making them suspicious. They won't notice her unless she wants them to."

And if she did, I thought grimly, the shit would have already hit the fan.

Chuck leaned forward so I could see him in the rearview mirror. "Where will you be?"

"I'll be close, too—just not where Jill or anyone she's brought with her can see me. Don't worry, I'll have them all in my sights." I caught Carina's eye, and we exchanged a meaningful look. Both of us knew what I meant: I'd be covering the area with a high-powered sniper's rifle.

"I'm not crazy about being split up," Chuck said, "but, Carina?"

She turned to face him. "Yeah?"

"I really do trust you with my life." In the rearview, I could see he was looking her dead in the eye. "I know you'll keep me safe. I wasn't just saying that so Ellie would go along with it."

His voice was utterly sincere, and for once, Carina had nothing to say—not a quip or a smart remark. She looked down at her lap, unable to hold his gaze. After a contemplative moment, she shifted in her seat and looked out the side window, hiding her face. "I won't let either of you down."

We rode the rest of the way to the meeting point—a warehouse on Olympic Boulevard—in silence, broken only by the GPS' directions. When we pulled into the parking lot, dusk had fallen … but there was still enough light for me to see a large man leaning against the door, arms folded across his chest. Something about his posture screamed 'military,' and by instinct, my hand dropped to the most accessible of my guns, as if to make sure it was still there.

"Walker," Carina said, her voice a warning.

"Yeah, I see him. I'm getting out."

"I'll be on your six," she said, her eyes focused on the Hulk of a man. "Chuck, you stay in the car."

Much as I didn't like Carina telling Chuck what to do, she was right—he needed to stay out of sight until we figured out whether this guy was a threat. "Here," I said, handing Chuck the keys. "If you need to get out of here in a hurry, at least you'll have the means to do so."

His eyes widened in the dimness of the car. "But—"

"This shouldn't take long." I opened the door and stepped onto the asphalt; Carina did the same.

The guy pushed off the door and walked toward us. Nothing he did was overtly threatening—but it didn't have to be. He was big—at least Chuck's height—and built. As he came toward us, I could see he was armed; he wasn't trying to hide it. His hair was short and dark, clipped in a military cut. If I had to guess, I'd put my money on the Marines. "Names and credentials," he said.

Huge, armed, _and _friendly. What a winning combination. "Sarah Walker and Carina Miller. CIA," I said, stopping about three feet from him. We held up our badges. "And you?"

"Lieutenant Colonel John Casey. NSA." He did the same and then glanced beyond us, at the Jeep. "Is that Bartowski?"

I'd say one thing for John Casey—he didn't waste his breath on useless communication. "Yes. Chuck, you can come out," I said, pitching my voice loud enough for him to hear.

Behind me, I heard the sound of the Jeep's door opening and Chuck's Converses thudding on the pavement. He came up next to me ... and stopped dead. His eyes widened as he took Casey in—the NSA agent might only be an inch or so taller than Chuck, but he was broad-shouldered, over-muscled, and armed to the teeth. After a tense moment, in which Casey stared back at him in stony silence, Chuck extended his hand in introduction. "Chuck Bartowski," he said.

Casey looked at Chuck's hand as if it was coated in slime. "Casey," he said, and turned on his heel. "Let's get you ladies inside."

Behind Casey's back, Chuck raised his eyebrows at me, mouthing a silent '_What did I do?' _I shrugged back, resigned. Apparently, in addition to being a behemoth, Lieutenant Colonel John Casey was also an asshole.

Casey pushed open the steel door to the warehouse and stalked inside. The three of us followed, Carina and I separating to flank Chuck as soon as we had room.

Inside, the warehouse was empty, aside from some folding tables, a few open weapons lockers, and six people who stood crowded around them, all wearing black BDUs. Casey stopped a few feet from them, and I took the opportunity to assess the strike team Graham had assembled: Four men and two women, none of whom I'd ever met before. When they saw Casey, they snapped to attention.

"Let's get the intros out of the way so we can get down to business," he said, jerking a thumb in our direction. "Walker and Miller, CIA. Bartowski, the daisy whose ass you'll be watching. This is Jonas"—he pointed at a short, stocky guy to the left of the lineup—"Appleton"—a brunette with her hair pulled up into a ponytail—"Manson"—a black-haired guy almost as tall as Casey himself, but whip-thin—"Lenox"—a blonde whose BDUs couldn't quite conceal her shapely curves—"Beasley"—a pale redhead cradling a grenade he'd been pulling out of the locker when we came in—"and Davis"—a guy with crew-cut brown hair and a crooked, charming smile.

"Hello boys … and girls," Carina cooed, returning the smile. Casey glared at her.

"Okay, enough socializing. Let's go over the situation at the pier. Who's actually been there before?"

"I have," I said, as Chuck raised his hand like he was in high school. No one else moved.

"Great. Two of us," Casey said, his tone thick with sarcasm. "At least the asset's not going in blind. I've got satellite footage, so gather 'round, children." He strode over to one of the folding tables and flipped a laptop open. "Let's talk terrain."

We spent the two hours going over all the entrances and exits to the pier, reviewing our plan, making contingencies for said plan, and determining which weapons to bring. By the end of our briefing, I was satisfied that the strike team was competent—and that whatever else John Casey happened to be, he was a damn good leader. His primary strategy seemed to be inspiring fear in the individuals for whom he was responsible … but whatever his approach, it worked. The team was cohesive and professional, which was all I could ask for.

When we'd gone over everything, I grabbed Chuck's hand and pulled him to the side. "Are you sure you're okay, Chuck?" I said, low enough so Casey couldn't hear. It was one thing for Carina to know how things stood with the two of us—I had nothing to prove to her—but the last thing I wanted was for Casey to question my ability to do my job.

He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "In all honesty … I'm kinda freaking out right now. I've never been in a situation like this before—obviously. But I do trust you … unequivocally. I just want to get this resolved and put it behind us—and this seems like the only way. The sooner we get this over with, the better."

God … I wanted to hug him so badly it hurt. "I wish it could be me with you tonight instead of Carina."

"Yeah, I do too, Sarah." He lifted a hand as if to touch me, then let it fall. "But listen … before we have to go, I feel like I should probably tell you …"

His voice trailed off, and he shifted his weight, looking nervous. I felt my heartbeat accelerate in response. What if he wanted to tell me that what had happened between us was a mistake … that this situation had made him realize that he wanted to get as far away from me and my lifestyle as possible? But if that was it, why would he want me with him instead of Carina? Unless he trusted me with his personal safety but not his heart …

"Yeah?" I said, my anxiety making me sound more abrupt than I'd intended. "What did you want to say?"

He swallowed hard. "Well, I just … this is … I, um, really … you and me …" He shook his head and huffed out a frustrated breath. "God … I'm not sure if I should say …"

He really was freaking out. Was this his way of letting me down easy? My heart pounded so hard, I felt nauseated.

"What is it, Chuck? Whatever it is, you can tell me."

He drew a deep breath, as if bracing himself. "Ever since meeting you, my life's been a complete whirlwind. There's been so many things that've changed in such a short period of time and it's been hard for me to pin them all down and reflect, you know? But on the other hand, some things have become crystal clear—things I'm absolutely sure about. Like I'm sure that tonight will turn out just fine, but if something were to happen and I never had the chance to tell you …" He reached to take both of my hands in his, his eyes fixed on mine. "Sarah Walker … I'm—"

"Walker … Bartowski … what the hell are you two doing?" It was Casey, who'd strode across the room and was looming over me. Not a fan of being loomed over—or having my conversation with Chuck interrupted—I stepped back and scowled up at him.

"We're talking—an activity with which you seem relatively unfamiliar, given that most of the words that come out your mouth consist of two syllables at most."

I heard Chuck try—and fail—to suppress a snort of laughter. Casey glowered at both of us. "Talking's overrated. Time to suit up. Bartowski … you'll need to get fitted for a vest." He grabbed Chuck by the arm and hauled him off, leveling one last baleful look at me over his shoulder.

Sighing, I went to grab a vest of my own. Whatever Chuck had been about to tell me would have to wait.

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck stood under the world's only solar-powered Ferris wheel, looking utterly alone.

This was quite a feat, because even at midnight, the Santa Monica pier was crowded—more crowded than it'd been when Chuck and I had had our date here. Still … despite his attempt at bravado, I could tell from the hunch of his shoulders and the tension in his body that he was terrified. He looked as if he was trying to fold into himself in a desperate effort not to be noticed—but being noticed was, of course, the point, so every few minutes he would straighten up and self-consciously glance around. When no one appeared out of the shadows to accost him, he'd shrink back into himself, like a hermit crab climbing back into its shell … and then five minutes later, the whole cycle would begin again.

Chuck couldn't have chosen a more incongruous meeting place than Pacific Park for our grim encounter with Jill and whoever she might bring with her. The breeze carried the happy-go-lucky scent of salt air and French fries my way, along with the mock-terrified shrieks of the people who were brave enough to ride the coaster. From my vantage point on the roof of the Hippodrome, I could see two teenagers wander past Chuck, their hands in each other's back pockets and their faces turned toward each other, giddy with happiness. It somehow seemed wrong to be peering at them through a high-powered scope, as if they were targets rather than two kids having a great time.

The wheel loomed behind Chuck, lit up brightly for the night. I could see its red-and-blue reflection in the water, shining on the waves and the gleaming, wet sand. But this wasn't the time to admire the ocean's beauty. It was the time to make sure Chuck didn't get taken or worse … killed.

We all had earwigs in, so I could hear the agents talking amongst themselves—shushed repeatedly by Casey, who had no patience for unnecessary chatter. Carina was by the Ferris wheel, flirting with the operator—a guy in his early twenties whose flushed cheeks were still pitted with the remnants of teenage acne. He looked gobsmacked to have her attention. She leaned closer, flipping her hair back—and Casey's irritated voice came over the comms.

"What the hell are you doing, Miller? Angling for a prepubescent kid to buy you a funnel cake? In case you haven't noticed, your asset's right on the other side of the railing."

Carina gave the ride operator a sweet, coquettish smile—and then stood up and backed away, strolling over to Pier Burger. She leaned against the wall, beneath the red-and-white awning, and let Casey have it. "Unlike some of _your _people, Casey, I am establishing a believable cover—a reason to justify my presence near the asset. Do you mind?"

"Yes … I do mind. Giving the ride operator a floor show isn't part of your job description."

"I know how to do my job." She sounded pissed. "And I resent the implication otherwise."

I ignored their byplay, scanning the pier through the scope again. The other six agents were strategically scattered, close enough to get to Chuck if they needed to, but sufficiently far away so as not to draw too much attention. Casey himself was beneath the arch of the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, a to-go cup in his hand. Like everyone else—Chuck included—he wore Kevlar beneath his plainclothes.

As I watched, Carina strolled back over to the Ferris wheel and took up her conversation with the clueless ride operator again. I breathed deeply, steadying my hand on the rifle's trigger guard, taking in the scents of funnel cake and popcorn, hot dogs and burgers, mixed in with the shifting ocean breeze.

There was a low hum overhead, and I glanced up just in time to catch sight of the drone that was flying the length of the boardwalk. It was being controlled by Stanton, a CIA analyst on loan to Casey's team, parked in the lot next to the pier. While I was relieved to have him, I'd been annoyed that Casey hadn't thought enough of his abilities to include him in our briefing. "He's just a tech geek," the NSA agent had said when I asked. "He's gonna be in a van … with a remote control. He's got photos of Roberts, the strike team, the asset, and the three of us. What else does he need to know?"

Chuck had tensed when Casey said this, and I couldn't blame him. He himself was a tech geek, after all—or 'nerd,' as he'd informed me was the preferred vernacular. If it hadn't been for his ability to hack into Stanford's email server, not to mention seeing through Jill's bluff, we wouldn't be here in the first place. Casey had as much finesse as a rampaging bull in an antique shop full of Spode, and if I ever had to work with him again, I'd set him straight. For now, I had to content myself with adding his attitude to the growing list of all the ways in which this situation fell short of ideal.

The drone—which had eyes on all approaching vehicles and anything else that might be perceived as a threat—hovered over the roller coaster, which Chuck and I had never gotten a chance to ride. I'd always loved coasters—the thrill, the sense of freedom. _Next time, _I told myself firmly. There would be a next time. I'd sacrifice myself before I'd let anything happen to Chuck.

The lights on the Ferris wheel changed, the outer rim a solid glowing blue and the inner spokes bright pink. I glanced away to conserve my vision and looked back at Chuck, who was pacing in front of the guardrail that separated the crowd from the ride. Then at Carina. Then Casey. Then Appleton. Beasley. Davis.

"Walker." It was Casey's voice. "Stanton's got eyes on someone. No sign of Roberts, but be on your guard. There's a fair amount of suspicious activity down here. In fact—shit. Eyes on the asset."

My heart picked up pace. Through my scope, I saw a bald, muscled, mustachioed man in a leather jacket walking up to Chuck. With a deceptive smile, as if the two of them were having a friendly chat, he leaned closer—and jammed something into Chuck's side … a gun, if I had to guess.

"Don't move," he said, audible only through our comms—not that Chuck had any intention of doing so. He looked frozen—petrified.

My heart bottomed out. What the hell had I been thinking, risking him like this? He didn't belong here. I must've lost my mind to think this would be a good idea. And now I was going to lose _him_—the only guy who'd ever meant anything to me. The best man I'd ever met. What would I tell Ellie? How could I live with myself?

I peered through the scope, toying with the idea of taking the shot … but what if the gunman tensed at impact, pulling the trigger? Shit, shit, shit…

Just as I was on the verge of a complete meltdown, Carina leapt the railing and hurtled at the gunman, delivering an impressively accurate ax kick that knocked the weapon out of his hand. It fell to the pier, and before he could go after it, she threw a back-fist, connecting with his jaw. She followed that up with a knee to his solar plexus and an open palm strike to his nose. Blood poured down, obscuring the bottom half of his face. She was poetry in motion—an auburn-haired blur.

Chuck looked left and right desperately, searching for a familiar face or an escape route, like we'd told him to … but it was pointless. Through my scope, I saw men and women—ours and theirs—moving out of the shadows, converging on his position from all sides. He was boxed in.

The crowd scattered, fleeing like a flock of frightened birds, trampling each other in an effort to escape. The pier was in chaos, with the operators struggling to bring the rides to a halt and people bumping into each other, dropping popcorn and burgers and milkshakes. From where I lay on my stomach on the roof, I could hear their screams echoing off the sides of the Hippodrome.

Well, the fewer civilians that got caught up in this mess, the better. Through the green-tinted vision of my scope, I watched Lenox take on one of Jill's men, putting a bullet in the guy's chest as he spun to confront her. He fell, bleeding, but two more of Jill's minions targeted Lenox, one coming in from the narrow space between two restaurants on the left and the other from beneath the coaster on the right. Lenox raised her gun, aiming for the left-hand assailant, but there was no way she'd be able to shoot both of them in time. I covered her just as the one on the right emerged from under the coaster, making sure I aimed to wound and disable, not to kill. We needed their intel, after all.

Our guns went off in unison: Lenox dropped her man with a shot to the shoulder as I fired, putting a bullet in Coaster Man's leg. He staggered backward, dropping his gun, hand pressed to his thigh, his mouth rounded in shock, looking upward for the source of the bullet as he fell.

Two down. And—I counted carefully, scanning through the scope—about ten more to go. Three of Jill's lackeys—two women and a man, from what I could see—lay crumpled on the pier. I checked on Chuck, who was huddled behind a concession stand, hiding … exactly what we'd told him to do if no escape route presented itself. The stand, which sold t-shirts, hats, and light-up keychains with images of the Santa Monica pier, had taken a hit or two—some of the merchandise lay scattered on the ground, looking inappropriately festive in the midst of a gunfight—but the cart itself was still intact. It would keep him safe … for now.

I adjusted my position, scanning the pier once more. Beasley had cornered one of Jill's female agents by the Scrambler and was lifting his gun to fire … but then another of Jill's agents—or whoever they were—came barreling out from beneath the steel support structure. Beasley and his opponent fell against the mechanism that controlled the ride, which hummed to life just as the two of them, each wrestling for the other's gun, tumbled into one of the silver cars. There was a cheery yellow-and-orange sea creature painted on the side, an alarming contrast to the skirmish within.

Christ. You had to be kidding me.

I took aim at the female agent, who was trying to get a bead on Beasley—a task that was proving near-impossible, given the pitched hand-to-hand battle that was taking place in the car and the fact that the car itself had begun to move, rotating in dizzying circles with ever-increasing speed. My bullet took the agent in the side, sending her skidding backward across the wooden boards of the pier. She smacked into one of the ride's neon-green supports just as Beasley shoved his opponent over the side of the car. The guy tried to roll out of the way, but no dice. The car behind the one he'd fallen out of smashed into him, and though I was too far away to hear it, I could imagine the splintering sound of his broken bones all too well. He lay under the spinning cars, blood spreading beneath him, his limbs splayed at impossible angles.

Two more down. And … I scanned the pier again after checking on Chuck to make sure he was still okay … five to go.

Leather Jacket was engaged in a pitched battle with Carina, who had somehow lost her weapon, evening the odds between them. She seemed to be holding her own, for now—though whoever Leather Jacket was, he was obviously skilled enough to be able keep pace with her. He'd driven her backward several yards from their original position, but she was all right, for the moment … so I moved on, sweeping the pier for danger.

I found it, in the form of a slight, dark-clad figure who'd risen from behind the counter of the burger joint and was taking aim at Lenox—who, in turn, had her gun trained on another of Jill's minions. The dark-clad agent's gun looked as if it was aimed at Lenox's head—a kill shot. I drew a deep, steadying breath … and fired.

I had never killed anyone before—but there was no doubt in my mind that that was what I'd done now. The dark-clad figure's head snapped back. She—because it was a woman, I could see that now—flew backward and smashed into a hanging sign that read "Flavor of the Day: Mint Chocolate Chip." Then she fell onto the grill, coating burgers, buns, and white cardboard takeout containers with a thick spray of blood. The sign swung back and forth from its metal carabiners, dripping thick red droplets onto her crumpled body.

I felt sick to my stomach—but there was no time to contemplate or to grieve. Averting my eyes from the wreckage of the person I'd killed, I refocused on the pier just in time to see Casey sneaking up behind a black-haired, olive-skinned man. The guy spun just in time, elbowing the gun out of Casey's hand. Looking as infuriated as if his opponent had just lopped off a limb, Casey returned the favor, wrenching the guy's wrist in return so that Black Hair's own gun dropped to the pier.

Whatever my personal opinion about Casey might be, he was a hell of a fighter. As soon as his opponent's gun tumbled onto the ground, the NSA agent swung and connected, knocking the guy on his ass. The guy leapt back up and Casey lashed out with a wicked-looking Bowie knife, catching the guy under his left eye. Blood poured down his face like ruby tears. Recovering, he charged at Casey, enraged—but Casey delivered a vicious front kick and dropped him once again.

That fight, at least, looked under control. I checked on Chuck again and was relieved to find him still huddled behind the concession stand, peeking out every now and then to make sure his position was safe. But then, as I watched, he did something we had definitely told him _not_ to do … he leaped up from behind the stand and ran at Leather Jacket and Carina—who, I was horrified to see, was backed against a chain link fence, slumping to the ground.

My idiot of a boyfriend hurled himself at Carina, throwing his body in between her and Leather Jacket. I stared, dumbfounded—and consumed by fear. What the hell was he doing? Did he possibly think he stood a chance?

Leather Jacket seemed similarly bemused. He grabbed Chuck by the back of his shirt collar and punched him in the gut, doubling him over, then threw him bodily to the ground. As he stood over Chuck, probably deciding the most effective way to macerate him without doing permanent damage, Carina belly-crawled over the wooden boards of the pier, grabbed her gun, and leapt to her feet, pistol-whipping Leather Jacket across the temple while his focus was still on Chuck. He fell to the ground and stayed there.

The pier was suddenly, eerily silent, except for the occasional moan from the wounded agents—which, I saw, only included Manson and Davis on our side of things. Manson had bound his upper arm with some kind of makeshift tourniquet, and Davis was sitting on the ground, pressing hard on his side to stanch the flow of blood. Everyone else we'd brought to the party was still standing, if a little worse for wear. Jill's henchmen couldn't say the same; they were all down, either damaged or dead. Leather Jacket wasn't moving, and Casey had cuffed his opponent's hands behind his back. It was over.

I breathed a sigh of relief—and then looked through my scope one last time. A chill ran down my spine. Someone was trying to sneak up behind Chuck and Carina, using the shadows to hide their approach. I peered closer, an unmistakable sense of dread filling me.

It was Jill, gun drawn—and through my scope, I saw her finger begin to tighten around the trigger.

I didn't think. There was no time for that. I just aimed … and fired.

The bullet took her square in the chest, center mass. Like the female agent behind the Pier Burger counter, she flew backward, a blood-red rose blooming on her shirt. As if in slow motion, I saw Chuck's spin, his mouth open in horror, saw him lunge as if to catch her … too late. She hit one of the coaster's orange supports and slid to the ground, ending in a heap atop discarded burger wrappers, plastic cups, and the soggy remains of an ice cream sundae. Her body twitched once, twice—and then didn't move again.

_I'd like to bring Jill in alive, if possible … but if it comes down to her or Chuck … well, then there's really no choice.  
_

Oh, God. What had I done?

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A/N: Oh, my … that was fun to write. We hope it was just as fun to read! Some of you may have already figured out that the bald, muscled, mustachioed man and the black-haired, olive-skinned man are rather important figures from canon. We think we gave plenty of hints … but you never know! The next chapter will shed more light on them. We'd love to know what you think.

A/N #2: Per many of your PMs and reviews, we'd like to assure you that we will be updating ASITHOC at some point as well as starting a new story—we haven't forgotten! Right now, between working from home and homeschooling, this is about as many words as we can pump out in a week while retaining the quality that's important to us. Hopefully, after the school year winds down, we can be more prolific. We appreciate your continued patience.

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	15. The Painful Truth

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 15: The Painful Truth** **  
**

I watched in horror as Chuck kicked the gun out of Jill's slackened hand. He knelt, checking the pulse in her neck, then shook his head and pressed down on the entry wound to stem the flow of blood. I could hear him saying Jill's name over and over, asking if she could hear him, begging her to wake up. She didn't respond … just lay there, her mouth open wide, frozen in fear and shock. The whole thing looked like a macabre scene straight out of one of Goya's paintings—but Chuck refused to stop trying. Eyes fixed on Jill's motionless body, he lifted his hand and waved to Carina, beckoning her to help. Through the green-tinted lens of the scope, I could see that his palm was blackened and slick with Jill's blood—blood that I had spilled.

It'd been one thing to take a life as I provided overwatch for the strike team I was sworn to protect. It was something else altogether to kill Chuck's ex-girlfriend just a few yards away from where he stood … the same woman he'd almost asked to marry him not too long ago.

Before today, I'd never killed anyone—although I'd had vivid nightmares about Graham giving me my red test … awful dreams from which I woke shaking violently, drenched in cold sweat. I'd never told anyone about them; what would the CATS think of big, bad Sarah Walker if she let slip how it sickened her to even think about deliberately snuffing out someone's life? After the dreams, my only consolation had been that I would know about my red test in advance—that I'd be able to prepare. Well, that hadn't been how things had turned out. I'd acted on instinct … and now Chuck literally had blood on his hands because of something I'd done.

Would he hate me for it? Would he be frightened of me? Would he ever want to talk to me again? And how could he forgive me for taking the life of someone he'd once loved … even if I'd done it to save _his_ life?

Chuck was the gentlest person I'd ever met. How could he love a killer?

Through the comms, I heard Casey place calls for medical and cleaner teams. I could see him gesturing to the members of his own team who were still standing, ordering them to secure the prisoners and clear the area. "Cordon off a perimeter," he barked, and they scurried to obey. "The last thing we need is civilians wandering into this mess. And stay alert. The meat wagon's on its way."

I listened with half an ear as I packed up my sniper rifle. All I wanted was to get to Chuck, to tell him how sorry I was—but what if he wouldn't have anything to do with me now? What if he wouldn't listen?

With my rifle case strapped across my back, I climbed down the ladder that led to the roof and descended straight into chaos. Despite Casey's best efforts to bring things under control, he'd been right to call it a mess. There were bodies everywhere … under the cars of the Scrambler, beneath the arch of the coaster, lying prone on the wooden boards of the pier, draped over the grill of the burger joint. Some of them were moaning and stirring; others lay still. I felt like I'd stumbled onto the set of _Saving Private Ryan_ ... only this was real. Incongruously, the air still smelled of popcorn and funnel cakes, scents I couldn't reconcile with all the blood and gore.

Through my earwig, I heard Chuck's voice, sharp and panicked: "Carina, why are you just standing there? Snap out of it and help me!"

I hated that I'd been the one to put that tone in his voice—hated even more that I couldn't just run to him. Instead I checked on Mason and Davis as I passed them, stopping to make sure they were okay, then made my way to Casey's side. "All right?" I asked, in the most effective shorthand I could manage. Maybe Casey would appreciate that. He was a man of few words, after all.

He grunted in what sounded like affirmation. "Medics are on the way. Make yourself useful."

I figured the most useful I could make myself was to get to Chuck and Carina and see if by some miracle Jill was still alive. "On it," I said, and hurried down the boardwalk.

I paused for a moment outside Pier Burger. Despite my urgent desire to reach Chuck, I owed it to the woman I'd killed to bear witness to what I'd done to her, no matter the justification. I'd seen the carnage from the roof, of course, but getting a close-up look was different. The whole interior of the walk-up restaurant was painted in blood. Thick globs of it decorated the take-out containers and the clear plastic cups. Splatters of it coated the counter and the menu boards. But worst of all was the woman herself. The employees hadn't had time to turn off the grill before they'd fled, and she'd landed on it after I snuffed out her lights. The only word I could use to describe her appearance was … flambéed. And the smell was indescribable.

The last thing I wanted to do was to get any closer, but I couldn't let her lie there cooking in burger grease. I flipped up a hinged section of the counter and walked through, then edged toward the grill, averting my eyes as best I could. This close, I could hear the unmistakable sound of sizzling … and not just from the desiccated patties of meat that had turned to lumps of blackened charcoal. Fighting the urge to gag, I scanned the grill for the thermostats. I knew from a high school stint at a hot dog and burger joint that there would be three of them. Two were easily accessible—but the third was wedged between the rogue agent's belly and the grill.

Squaring my shoulders, I switched off the two thermostats I could reach. Then I steeled myself and slid my hand between the woman and the grill, shivering as her lifeless flesh pressed against my wrist. It was as if I'd touched an inanimate object … which, of course, was what she'd become … what I'd turned her into. I gritted my teeth, reaching for the dial, and spun it to the 'off' position—then backed away and stood there in disbelief, staring at the remains of the woman whose life I'd taken. And then I turned and vomited into the nearest trash can until there was nothing left.

When I was done, I wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve—I couldn't stand to take one of Pier Burger's napkins, even if it looked clean enough—and made my way out from behind the counter and down the pier to the coaster, trying to ignore the insistent churning of my empty stomach.

When I arrived, I found Chuck and Carina on their knees in the midst of burger wrappers and the liquefied ice cream sundae, still performing CPR on Jill … which looked like a lost cause.

Carina and I both had basic medical training, but there was nothing more either one of us could do. Chuck had taken control of the situation, and even though things looked hopeless, he was relentless, refusing to give up. I could hear him reassuring Jill in between blowing breaths, his bloody hands shaking, as Carina handled the compressions. One of them had ripped open Jill's shirt and pulled the front of the bulletproof vest over her head. The hole in the vest from the high-velocity bullet was rimmed with blood.

I stood helplessly beneath the curve of the coaster, wringing my hands. How could I help? What was I supposed to say to Chuck when this was all over? _I thought she was going to shoot either you or Carina, so I shot first. Your friendly neighborhood sociopath, at your service. _Yeah, that would go over great.

He didn't acknowledge me in any way. I didn't think he even knew I was there. Or maybe he did, and was ignoring me—and I couldn't blame him. He was stuck in the position of trying to save the life of the woman who'd horribly betrayed him … and it was all my fault. Guilt settled over me, crushing me beneath its weight. I looked at Jill, lying in a pool of blood and melted ice cream, and bile filled my throat again.

_I would not throw up. Not again. If Chuck could do this, then I could too.  
_

When the medical team finally showed up to take over, I breathed a sigh of relief that shook my entire body—until Chuck stood up and I got a good look at him. He looked like an extra in a horror movie. There was blood all over his hands and his face, as well as in his hair, from running his hands through it while Carina was doing her compressions. His curls were matted to his head, his face was stark white beneath the streaks of blood, and his eyes were wide and glazed with shock. He looked, in a word, devastated—and Carina didn't look much better.

I hadn't thought it was possible for my guilt to intensify, but it did, pressing down on me until I could hardly draw breath. As the medical team worked, I stole glances at Chuck out of the corner of my eyes, and often found him looking back at me—but I couldn't maintain eye contact with him. I was too ashamed. Instead I fixed my eyes on the team as they frantically tried to save Jill. Watching them try to stabilize her—assuming there was something left to stabilize—was my penance. Looking at Chuck just felt like the precursor to an awful, soul-wrenching loss.

After the longest few minutes of my life, Casey strode over to us and cleared his throat, looking down at Jill's body. "Your shot?" His tone was … not impressed exactly, but validating, as if I'd passed some kind of test.

I didn't work for Casey. I wasn't interested in impressing him or earning his respect. And right now, the idea that killing a woman before she'd fired a single shot had somehow put me in his good graces … it made me ill.

I nodded curtly, and he clapped me on the shoulder, hard enough that I had to brace my feet to stay upright. "Come on," he said, tilting his head in the direction of the parking lot. "We got what we came for. The cleanup team will deal with the rest. I'm sure they'll come up with a stellar cover story for why the pier looks like Swiss cheese. Meet me back at the warehouse. We still have work to do."

At first, I didn't think Chuck would leave Jill alone with the medics—but after a last miserable look over his shoulder, he followed me to the Jeep. We walked in silence. I wasn't sure what Chuck was thinking, but I alternated between fearing that I'd wrecked everything between us and seeing the faces of the people I'd shot. When I found the courage to glance his way, I almost wished I hadn't. His face was ghost-white, and he looked queasy, like he might throw up any second—a feeling with which I could empathize. Even Carina looked off … although when I peered more closely at her, I realized the foreign expression on her face was something akin to awe. I was sure that look wasn't for my benefit; I might not have killed anyone before, but she knew what a good shot I was. No … it had to be for Chuck, the way he'd kept his head in a crisis, the way he might very well have saved her life—and maybe Jill's, too.

I'd wanted Carina to realize how special he was, to take him seriously. But not like this.

We reached the Jeep and climbed in—me behind the wheel, Carina in the passenger's seat, Chuck in the back, just like we'd done before. The seating arrangement was the same—but everything had changed.

I still had a 100% mission success rate, but tonight I'd become death's right hand and probably lost the best man I'd ever met. If I'd had any doubt which mattered to me more—my career or the promise of a life with Chuck—or if I really was in love … now I knew for sure.

And it was tearing me apart.

OoOoOoOoO

We drove the short distance to the warehouse in intense, contemplative silence. As we retraced the route we'd taken to reach the pier, I kept considering and discarding what I might say to Chuck if he ever allowed us a moment alone again. Unfortunately, by the time we pulled into the warehouse parking lot, I still hadn't come up with anything that didn't paint my actions as those of a monster. Maybe I never would.

I swung the Jeep into a parking spot, and Casey pulled up right beside us. With the part of my brain that wasn't drowning in misery, I noted that his car was an ancient but pristine black Crown Victoria. Why he would drive such a relic—no matter how good its condition—I had no idea. I added it to the growing list of things I now knew about Lieutenant Colonel John Casey: _A man of few words; exceptional at his job; vicious in a fight; fond of cars that look like they rolled off the set of a 1980s police sitcom.  
_

Apparently even when Casey was off duty, he really wasn't. Some agents were like that—they couldn't leave the job behind. Or the job was so all-consuming, it became their whole identity.

I'd been like that, before meeting Chuck and his family. I'd thought I was finally leaving that part of my life behind … that I'd found something far better. But now that I'd killed one—possibly two—people … even if I left the CIA, I could never erase the sight of that woman's body fusing to the searing griddle amidst the abandoned hot dogs and burgers. I could never unsee the memory of Chuck leaning over Jill, framing her face with his blood-soaked, trembling hands, trying to breathe life back into her. The fact that I'd probably taken two people's lives was now a part of me. Even if I quit the CIA right this second, I couldn't undo it or take it back.

Maybe Casey had learned that painful truth the hard way, and wore his acceptance of it on his sleeve like a talisman … warding away the ghosts of the lives he'd taken in the line of duty.

I blinked back tears and saw Carina staring at me, a quizzical look on her face. Shaking my head, I pulled myself together. Now wasn't the time for existential musings. Now was the time for getting answers and owning up to what I'd done.

When we walked inside the warehouse, the four remaining team members were changing out of their street clothes and checking their weapons. There was none of the easy camaraderie and joking around that I'd seen from them before. The mood was somber—even if we'd carried the day, two team members had been wounded in the process.

"Hey, Walker," Lenox said when she saw me. "Thanks for having my back."

I nodded in her direction, not trusting my voice. I'd shot the woman who'd fallen onto the grill to save Lenox's life. It was good to know that she, at least, didn't judge me for it … but as far as I knew, Lenox hadn't had a personal relationship with the enemy—unlike Chuck, who stood next to me, still pale and covered in blood. Carina, on his other side, didn't look much better—and I wasn't the only one who noticed.

"Miller … Bartowski." Casey's voice was gruff as usual. "Clean yourselves up. You look like Carrie at the prom."

Silence followed this pronouncement. Chuck's mouth fell open. He glanced down at his bloody hands, then back up at Casey, with unalloyed horror, and it occurred to me that in the absence of a mirror, he had no idea that his face was covered in his ex-girlfriend's blood.

"I—" he began, his voice as creaky as a hinge in need of oiling, and then fell quiet again—as if, for the first time since I'd met him, he couldn't think of a single thing to say.

Carina reached out an equally bloody hand and touched Chuck's forearm in support. I waited for jealousy to fill me, but it didn't come. For once, she wasn't being flirtatious … she was being genuine, offering comfort where I couldn't. It would have seemed inappropriate if I'd been the one to touch him … and beyond that, he probably would never want my hands on him again. They were, after all, the same hands that had pulled the trigger.

Casey's eyes scanned Chuck's face. By a miracle, the NSA agent looked chastened. "Come on, Bartowski," he said roughly, closing his fingers around Chuck's upper arm. "Let's get you washed up." In a display of more empathy than I would've thought he was capable of, he towed Chuck off toward the men's bathroom.

That left me standing next to Carina, who was staring after Casey and Chuck with a bemused expression. Since she didn't seem to be making a move to help herself, I laced my fingers through hers, trying not to flinch at the sensation of the blood flaking off at my touch. In silence, we walked to the women's room. I locked the door behind us and turned on the faucet, and together, we scrubbed our hands clean.

I washed mine again and again, even when I couldn't see the traces of dried blood anymore. I didn't know about Carina, but I was beginning to feel a little like Lady Macbeth.

I'd turned away and was drying off with a paper towel, trying to figure out what to say, when she finally spoke.

"Thank you for saving our asses, Walker. I didn't see Jill behind us. I thought we were in the clear."

Carina didn't admit fault or weakness easily—she never had. I turned back around, eyeing her with surprise. "You're welcome."

She looked down at the gray-speckled linoleum. "I—I see now why you said Chuck was worth it. If it hadn't been for him jumping in to save me, I'd probably be dead or at least seriously hurt. I don't know what he was thinking, but … it probably saved my life. That Mr. Clean-looking jackass had the upper hand and it was just a matter of time until he took me out." She swallowed hard. "And then later—when you shot Roberts—Chuck totally took control of the situation, even though I could tell he was on the verge of falling apart. An untrained IT nerd—he had more self-possession in the field than a lot of agents I've worked with." There was a tone of respect in her voice that I'd never heard before.

That, more than anything else, gave me the courage for what I said next. "Carina … tonight was the first time I ever killed anyone." I felt like the words were being dragged up my throat by a gaff hook. "And now I might have killed two women. The first one—the one that was going to take Lenox out—my bullet almost ripped her head off and sent her flying onto the burger joint's grill. By the time I got close enough to take a look, she was faceless and … and _melted._ And Jill—she might not have been Chuck's favorite person, but … but he loved her once." My voice broke, and tears welled up in my eyes. "He loved her, and I put a bullet through her chest. I'm a murderer. How will he ever want me now?"

The tears overspilled my eyes and coursed down my cheeks. I pressed my hand to my mouth to stop the sobs, but they came anyhow.

Through my blurred vision, I saw Carina's eyes widen. She'd never seen me cry—why would she? The CIA didn't encourage blatant displays of emotion, especially in the context of the job. Well, at the moment I didn't give two shits about _the job_. If I lost Chuck, nothing else would matter.

Carina took a step toward me, and I had to fight not to flinch. But instead of giving me shit, she wrapped her arms around me, hugging me tight. "You've got nothing to be afraid of, girlfriend. Do you have any idea how Chuck looks at you? He's in as deep as you are."

I hugged her back. "I could have lost you both," I said against her shoulder. "If Jill had gotten off a shot … I didn't know who she was aiming at. Maybe both of you. The guy I'm—that I—" I couldn't say it, not when everything I'd hoped to have might be snatched away. "The guy I care about and the closest friend I've ever had. I couldn't let that happen."

I felt her suck in a breath. "The closest friend you've ever had, huh?"

Sniffling, I nodded. I liked Ellie so, so much—but I'd only met her a little while ago. Carina and I had years of having each other's backs. Sure, we also had years of arguments and competition … but that didn't detract from how much I cared about her, even when she didn't make it easy.

She patted my head like I was a lost puppy in need of reassurance. "Don't worry, BFF. Chuckles will forgive you."

Pulling back, I gave her a mock snarl. "Don't call him that."

"Why not? He's as sweet as candy … with a bit of a bite." She raised her eyebrows at me, but it was only in jest—a shadow of her normal salacious self. "Seriously, girl, stop freaking out. You did good. And everything with loverboy will be okay."

Even in dire situations, Carina was still Carina. I gave up trying to remonstrate with her and pulled the bathroom door open, gesturing into the warehouse. "After you."

When we walked back out, everyone was clustered in the middle of the floor, near the folding tables. Chuck stood next to Casey and what remained of the crew, talking on his phone. When I drew closer, I could hear him saying, "Yeah, Ellie, everyone's all right. Well, almost everyone." There was a pause. "Jill? Well, let's just say she … she isn't going to be a problem anymore." Silence fell again as he listened to whatever Ellie was saying. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, looking ill. Lifting his head, he shot a glance in the direction of the bathroom—and met my gaze for the first time since we'd left the pier.

"I'll tell you about it later, Ellie," he said, his eyes fixed on mine. "I have to go."

He disconnected the call and slipped his phone into his pocket. In his eyes, I saw a complicated mix of emotions—sadness, worry, and something else I couldn't quite place. Was it regret? Disgust? Fear? Regardless, I forced myself to hold his gaze. He'd earned the right to be my judge and jury.

One beat passed … two … three. Then Chuck crossed the distance between us in a few long strides and wrapped me tightly in his arms. I could feel him shaking, and knew I was doing the same. The tears came again, pouring down my face, and this time I didn't try to stop them. If this was the last time he held me this way, I wanted to feel everything.

"I'm so sorry, Chuck," I said again and again, like a record stuck on repeat. "I'm so, so sorry."

He stroked my hair, his big hand warm. "I'm sorry too."

This was the last thing I'd expected him to say. I pulled back enough to see his face, and was surprised to see it, too, was streaked with tears. "What could you possibly have to be sorry for?"

He bit his lip, a childlike gesture that made my heart hurt. "I would've never thought Jill was capable of anything like what I saw tonight. Sure, she was awful to me, but that was … it was personal. This … I …" He trailed off, then ran his fingertips down my cheek, wiping away my tears. "Thank you for saving my life."

Shock reverberated through me, chased by confusion. "But I shot her, Chuck. How can you even look at me?"

A sad smile lifted his lips. "Because you're an angel, Sarah—my guardian angel. I saw the gun in her hand. Jill is the only person responsible for her fate. She left you no choice."

For a moment I stood still, unable to believe what I was hearing. And then I flung my arms around him, not caring who might see. "If I'm your angel," I whispered, "then you're my miracle. Thank you for seeing the good in me when I can't see it myself. Thank you for caring about me."

He held me closer. "Sarah," he said, ducking his head so his voice was muffled against my hair, "I need to tell you—"

"Walker. Bartowski. Damn it." Casey's voice boomed across the warehouse, interrupting us yet again. "If you two will quit canoodling, we actually have work to do. Don't know about you, but I'd like to find out why these goons were interested in you, Bartowski. Any takers?"

Sheepishly, I let go of Chuck and stepped back, making my way over to the group. As I passed Carina, she gave me a not-so-subtle wink. Casey, on the other hand, looked down his nose at me—then cast his eyes heavenward as if the inconvenience of dealing with us was too much to bear. "Enough with the lady feelings," he said over his shoulder, striding toward the back of the building. "Let's get this done. I'm hungry and there's a bottle of Johnnie Walker somewhere with my name on it."

"He's hungry?" Chuck muttered as we followed, too quietly for Casey to hear. "I may never eat again. Every time I think of what happened on the pier, I feel sick. How do you guys do this job?"

"I don't know," I whispered back. "Tonight was a first for me, Chuck. I—I never—"

"Walker!" Casey sounded truly irritated now. "I can hear you babbling from here. Stay focused, children."

"Such a charmer," Carina said as she came even with us. "Who could resist?"

We made our way to the back of the warehouse, which had been modified to contain holding cells. Casey motioned us into a room with a table, two chairs, and a two-way mirror. "Take a look," he said.

I glanced through the mirror and saw the man he'd been fighting—the one whose face he'd slashed with the knife—cuffed to a metal chair. Evidently Casey hadn't offered him the same opportunity to wash up that he'd given Chuck; the guy's cheek was covered with dried blood. From the look of it, he'd have a scar … a bad one.

This clearly wasn't his first rodeo. He glared at the mirror with an intensity that made clear he knew exactly where it was … and suspected who was behind it.

"That's Tommy Delgado, ex-CIA and considered rogue," Casey said. "Either of you ladies heard of him?"

I thought hard, then shook my head. Carina did the same.

"Not a problem." He gave us a wicked grin. "I look forward to loosening his tongue. Rest assured that by the time I'm through with him, I'll find out everything he knows. I've got some foolproof methods at my disposal."

Chuck made a dismayed sound, which Casey ignored. "So … I'll be right back with some beverages," he said, sounding cheerful. "Hang tight."

Casey was the last person who I'd anticipate offering beverage service under any circumstances—much less as a prelude to interrogation. I eyed him in puzzlement.

Carina, on the other hand, wasted no time taking advantage of the situation. "Thanks, big guy," she said, batting her eyelashes at him. "I'd like a coffee."

Apparently immune to her charms, Casey grunted and stalked out. He was back in a few minutes with a tray that held three coffees and a water. Without a word, he set the tray down on the table and went over to a black duffle bag stashed in the corner of the room. He bent down and started rummaging in it, just as Chuck grabbed the bottle of water, twisted off the cap, and took a sizeable gulp, then another.

"Wow," he said. "I didn't realize how thirsty I—"

He never got a chance to finish his sentence. Casey stood and spun to face us, looking infuriated. "Bartowski … you idiot." His voice filled the room. "Jesus Christ, this is unbelievable. You just drank Tommy's water."

I looked from Chuck to the water to Casey and back again. "What are you talking about?"

Casey's lip curled in contempt. "That bottle was for our special guest. It's laced with a fast-acting derivative of sodium pentothal—a secret cocktail we've been working on to loosen lips." He gestured toward Chuck, who looked as horrified as I felt. "Get him out of here, Walker. He's going to be a gibbering mess in a few seconds. Enjoy the ride, moron."

This could have been so much worse—Casey could've intended to poison his prisoner; who knew what his methods were—but it still wasn't good. It was another reminder that my world was laced with dangers that Chuck wasn't trained to anticipate … that he was used to trusting the people around him, Jill and Bryce notwithstanding.

"Casey," the man in question said, his eyes dreamy, "has anyone ever told you that your jaw looks like it was chiseled by Michelangelo himself? You're a stone-cold fox. Well, a _marble_-cold fox, if you want to get technical about it. And speaking of technical, I need to let you know that I don't appreciate the remarks you made about IT geeks earlier. For one thing, the proper term is 'nerd.' And for another—"

I clapped a hand over Chuck's mouth before he could say anything else, but the damage was done. Casey looked murderous.

"We'll be going now," I said, clamping my other hand around Chuck's wrist and dragging him from the room. "Away. Far, far away from here."

With a final glance at Carina, who stood by Casey's side, trying and failing to repress a smirk, I tugged Chuck out the door. The last thing I heard was my partner's amused voice, raised loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Bye-bye, Chuckles," she said.

OoOoOoOoO

I herded Chuck into the car, a task that was only slightly easier than training a litter of kittens to sit up and beg. He was compliant enough until we got outside the building. Then the reality of the situation seemed to dawn on him, and he stopped stock-still, staring at me with a look of horror. He twisted free of my grip and grabbed my hand, hard enough to bruise. "Oh my god, Sarah. Am I gonna die?"

I winced. "No, Chuck. You're not. But you are hurting me."

He dropped my hand like it was on fire. "I'm such an idiot. First I drank that water. Now I hurt you. I'm a big fat failure. Chuck the Schmuck. But you like me anyway, don't you? I think you like me."

My lips twitched. "Yes, Chuck, I like you … a lot."

"You do? That's good." His face lit up with happiness … then, just as quickly, it crumpled. "Then again, maybe you're just saying that to make me feel better … because I'm gonna die. Tell me the truth. Is this my last night on earth?"

"No!" I got hold of him again and started towing him toward the Jeep. He resisted.

"Look at the moon," he said, staring upward, transfixed. "Isn't it pretty? Almost as pretty as you are, Sarah."

Despite the awful night we'd had, I couldn't suppress a giggle. "Chuck, you're not even looking at me."

He tore his gaze away from the moon with considerable difficulty and fixed his eyes on my face. "There, now I am. God, you're so pretty. I should write a poem about you. No, a dirty limerick. 'Cause I've definitely had dirty thoughts about you, Sarah. Dirty, dirty thoughts."

"Oooookay." I hauled on him again, making it all the way to the Jeep this time.

He leaned against the door, giving me a shy look from beneath his lashes. "I should write a song about you. A ballad, really. The Ballad of Sarah Walker. Has anyone ever written a song about you? Because if not, they should. Not just a song, an album. It'd go platinum … like your hair. Your hair is so shiny, Sarah. Shiny and pretty. Did I mention I think you're pretty?"

"You might've brought it up once or twice." I opened the passenger-side door to the Jeep and helped him inside.

"Pretty," he mumbled to himself as he settled onto the seat. "What rhymes with pretty? Itty? Bitty? T—ohhhhh, no. That is not a nice word. Not nice at all. I'm so bad at rhymes."

I tugged the seatbelt loose and put the strap in his hand, fighting the urge to laugh. "Here. Buckle up, you goof."

By the time I went around the car and slid behind the wheel, he was sitting still, seatbelt strapped across his chest, staring through the windshield. He wasn't rhyming anymore. In fact, he wasn't saying anything.

"You okay?" I asked him, not sure if I was prepared to hear the answer.

"I … I don't know. I can't seem to stop thinking about what happened tonight. It goes round and round and round in my head … like the carousel at the pier. Round and round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel." He paused, his head tilted as if considering the wisdom of this statement. "I don't think you're a weasel, Sarah. You're much too pretty and kind and amazing. Weasels are ... well, weaselly. But you must be one, because … well …" His voice took on the singsong tone of the nursery rhyme. "Round and round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel … the monkey thought it was all in fun … pop goes the weasel!" He eyed me sadly. "And you definitely went 'pop.' Or your gun did, anyhow. Pop, pop, pop …" His voice trailed off, and I was sure he was picturing the same thing I was—Jill, lying prone on the pier, covered in blood.

My heart sank. "I'm so sorry, Chuck."

He patted my hand clumsily. "I know you are, Sarah. It's not your fault."

He had to believe that, if he was saying it under the influence of the sodium pentothal. Somehow, he'd forgiven me. But that didn't mean he hadn't been traumatized. "Chuck," I said, starting the car, "try to relax and not think too much, okay? We're going home. It's late. You can get some sleep."

As I pulled away from the curb, he shook his head hard, like a dog shedding water. "Oh, no. I don't think I'll be sleeping much tonight. I might never sleep again. Sleep is bad. Sleep means dreams. And I don't want to dream about what I saw tonight."

I merged into traffic, feeling guiltier than ever. "I don't blame you."

"Sarah?" he said in a small voice. "Do you think Jill will live?"

"I don't know, Chuck. But if she does, it will only be because of what you did for her." Rolling down the window, I took a deep breath of the night air to steady myself. Maybe it was cheating to ask him this … but I needed to know. "You still love her, huh?"

"I used to think so." He sounded sadder than ever. "But now I'm sure I didn't even have a clue what love was."

I couldn't help myself. "What do you mean? How do you know you didn't?"

"Because, Sarah." He stroked my hair back from my face. "Because of how I feel about you."

My breath hitched. "What?"

For a moment Chuck didn't speak. When he did, he sounded as if he was trying to fight off the effects of the drug—as if he was struggling to sound as normal as possible. "That's what I was trying to tell you earlier today. From the first moment I met you I knew you were different—that I felt differently about you. After our incredible conversation that night by the fountain, I was sure of it. Sarah Walker … I am without a doubt, totally and completely head over heels in love with you."

For a moment I was afraid I'd misunderstood. Then I was sure I hadn't … but I had no idea how to respond. How could he feel this way about me after what I'd done? Had I wanted to hear him say this so badly that I'd somehow conjured it? Maybe I'd gotten shot on the pier after all and was lying in the hospital, hallucinating. The alternative was too mind-boggling to imagine. Could this wonderful, sensitive, brilliant, kind man really love _me_ … the agent who'd shot one woman dead and possibly fatally wounded his ex? How could he look at me and see anything but a killer?

I was struck speechless, a condition that didn't improve when I glanced over at Chuck and saw the fear in his eyes. "Chuck," I said, my voice as soft as I could make it, "are you scared of me?"

If he said yes, it would break my heart. But I needed to know the truth.

He glanced down at his lap, knotting his fingers together. I waited, my pulse speeding. Finally he said, "No, Sarah. I could never be scared of you. I told you before—you're my guardian angel. You saved my life tonight. I'm just … I'm scared that you'll leave me, like everyone else has. And I'd be devastated if you did."

The rawness of his confession stunned me. I thought of small Chuck, abandoned first by his mother and then by his father … raised by his sister … betrayed by the woman who'd claimed to love him and his best friend. A fierce wave of protectiveness swept over me. "That will never happen, Chuck."

"Do you promise?" We pulled up to a light and he turned to me, his dark eyes filled with tears. "When I was younger, I would wait at the window and wish that my dad would come home. I'd look up at the stars, the way we always used to do together, and I'd think about the fact that somewhere, he could be looking up at the same ones. Maybe he was looking up at them and thinking about me. I'd wish as hard as I could for him to come back. But he never did."

He looked miserable, and I wanted to annihilate everyone who had ever hurt him. "I'm sorry about your dad, Chuck. But we'll find him. We will. And I promise to stay with you … as long as you'll have me."

I slipped my hand into his, and didn't let go until we pulled up in front of Echo Park. Then I shut off the car, turned to Chuck, and did what I'd wanted to do since he told me he loved me … I twined my hands in his hair, sealed my mouth over his, and kissed him until neither of us could breathe. I wasn't good with words the way he was, didn't have the same gift for saying what lay in my heart. So I tried to put everything I felt into that kiss, every bit of awe and gratitude and … yes … love.

When I sat back, Chuck's eyes were shining—and this time, not with tears. "I have a surprise for you," he whispered, his tone conspiratorial.

Oh, no. "What is it?"

"It's a song," he said, winking at me—or trying to, anyhow. Chuck seemed to be incapable of winking. Instead, he half-shut one eye, then closed both of them like an intoxicated owl. "Well, it's actually more of a limerick. Wanna hear it?"

Sweet Jesus. When I was a little girl, I'd dreamed that one day a guy who loved me might compose poetry in my name … but this hadn't been exactly what I'd had in mind. "Not unless you—"

He sat up straight, as if I hadn't spoken, blink-winked again, and cleared his throat. "Ahem. Here goes. Are you ready?"

"I don't think I'll ever be ready for this," I said with complete seriousness.

"Well, get ready, 'cause here it comes. An Irish original, by the very non-Irish Chuck Bartowski." He sat up straight and gave me a disarming smile. "There once was a pretty girl named Sarah/She was hot like a bright solar flare-ah/She was sexy like whoa/I won't let her go/I love her more than I can bear-ah."

On the last syllable, he clapped his hand over his mouth and peered at me with wide eyes. "Oh no," he mumbled from behind his fingers. "I can't believe I did that. Just kill me. Or, no, don't. Please don't kill me, Sarah. I love you, Sarah, you sexy ninja, you. Take me to bed or lose me forever, like the hot flight instructor in Top Gun says to Tom Cruise. Except you are so much hotter than that flight instructor. Like, a petabyte hotter. I would pet your byte any day."

His eyes widened even further—though I hadn't thought such a thing was possible—and his cheeks reddened. "I can't believe I said that either. I am a bad, bad boy."

"Okay, Chuck," I said, privately amused. "Time to stop talking now."

He mimed zipping his lips shut, then opened them and said, "Affirmative, Captain. I will zip it. Zip it good." And then, to my horror, he began to hum Devo's 'Whip It.'

Great. Not only was he stoned on Casey's tell-all concoction, he'd time-traveled back to the '80s. Top Gun … Whip It … what was next? Did he plan to tell me that last night he'd dreamt of San Pedro?

Taking advantage of his momentary silence, I manhandled him out of the car and guided him into the courtyard. All went well, except for a tricky moment when he broke free of my grip and made a determined beeline for a potted palm. When I caught up with him, he was staring at it in a besotted fashion, murmuring, "Sarah … your hair is so lovely … like feathery green fronds. When did you get so tall, Sarah?"

I was so, so glad Ellie and Devon were staying at a hotel tonight. If she were home, and I delivered her brother in this condition, I couldn't imagine what she would say. "Come on, Chuck," I said, tugging on his arm.

He turned to face me, looking bemused. "There are two of you, Sarah. Why are there two of you?"

I sighed. "You know what they say, Chuck. 'Double the pleasure, double the fun.' Oh, God, now you've got me doing it. Time to go home."

I kept tight hold of him as I unlocked the door to my apartment, then dragged him inside and shut the door behind us with an unmistakable sense of relief. Chuck looked around in puzzlement, doing his owl-blink again. "I hate to break it to you, Sarah, but I don't think I live here."

My lips twitched. "No, you don't. Luckily for both of us, I do. Let's go get you clean."

He trailed after me like a large, drunken duckling as I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. More than anything, I wanted to remove the blood that still stained his face and was matted in his hair. When he woke up in the morning, I didn't want there to be any physical reminders of last night. What he'd witnessed would always stay with him; he didn't need to wake up wearing his ex-girlfriend's blood.

Steam rose around us as I tugged on Chuck's shirt. "Take this off."

"Yes, ma'am." He saluted, then pulled his shirt over his head. Or at least, he tried to, but his coordination was shot and he ended up getting tangled in the sleeves instead. "Sarah?" he said mournfully as I tried to extricate him. "It's dark in here, Sarah. Why is it so dark?"

"Hold still!" I said as he squirmed, trying to get free. He was so tall, and the shirt was so tangled, I felt like I was battling an octopus who'd consumed a fifth of Cuervo. At long last, I got the shirt off, and started to work on his pants.

He crossed his hands protectively over himself. "Why, Miss Walker," he said in a terrible parody of a Southern belle. "I do believe you are trying to catch a glimpse of me in the altogether."

"What I'm _trying _to do," I said, yanking back the curtain, "is to get you to take a shower. In you get."

"Your wish is my command," he said, hopping on one foot as he tried to pull off his pants. He lost his balance, crashed into the sink, and wound up on the floor, staring up at me. "Now you're so tall _again,_" he said, sounding more bemused than ever. "Why do you keep growing and shrinking, Sarah? Why?"

_Jesus Christ on a piece of toast._ I pulled off his pants, hauled him upward—a feat in itself, given that he had me by at least fifty pounds and was about as cooperative as a limp toddler in need of a nap—and pointed at the shower. "You. In. Now."

Meekly, he climbed in—and then peeked around the curtain at me. "Are you coming too? 'Cause it's awful lonely in here."

Oh, what the hell. I hadn't wanted the second time I saw Chuck naked to involve his ex-girlfriend's bodily fluids, an accidental dose of truth serum, and a limerick in which my name rhymed with 'solar flare-ah,' but a girl couldn't have everything. I had Chuck, who'd said he loved me. Anything else was gravy.

"Sure," I said, stripped down, and stepped into the shower.

"Wow," Chuck said when he saw me, sounding awestruck. "I'm blinded by your beauty, Sarah." He scrubbed at his eyes.

"Um … thank you," I said, reaching for a washcloth.

"No, really." He was starting to sound panicked. "Like, literally blinded. I think your shiny prettiness may have finally overwhelmed my senses, like looking at the sun for too long. The world is a blur, Sarah. Please, help me."

I glanced up at him and felt my lips curve upward in a helpless smile. "It's not my … my 'shiny prettiness,' Chuck. It's the water. Here." Reaching up, I dabbed the drops from his eyes with the washcloth.

"Ah," he said in relief, blinking at me. Drops still clung to his lashes, and he blinked again to chase them away. "That's much better. Here, you have the water now. It doesn't like me."

He moved out from under the spray and I stepped beneath it. The warm water soothed my aching muscles—but being this close to a naked Chuck, no matter the circumstances, was anything but soothing. Trying my best not to think either about our nudity or why we were in this shower in the first place, I grabbed a washcloth and gently washed the last traces of blood from his skin. Then I tugged him down so I could reach his hair and ran my hands through it again and again, rinsing the blood away.

"Sarah?" he said as I guided the washcloth over his stomach, feeling his muscles ripple and shift beneath my touch.

"Hmmm?"

"I'm so glad you're here. With me." He wrapped his arms around me, holding me close. "I wish we could freeze this moment forever."

There was nothing remotely salacious in his tone. It was sincere, his voice quiet. I hugged him back, leaning against him. "Me too," I said, and wished I had the courage to say more—to speak my heart the way he had, preferably without the dirty limericks. "Come on, let's get out and dry off before we turn into prunes."

"I don't like prunes," he said, sounding woeful. "They're so wrinkly. Food shouldn't have wrinkles, Sarah. It's like a rule."

He had a point.

We stepped out of the tub and dried off. Well, I dried off; Chuck fumbled for the towel, dropped it, and eventually let me wrap it around his waist. Together, we walked into my room, and Chuck climbed into bed. He lay on his back, his arms open wide in welcome.

I snuggled up next to him, my head on his chest, and he tugged up the comforter so that it covered both of us. His heart beat beneath my ear, slow and even, and his hand traveled over my hair, then down my arm, his touch gentle. It reached my hip … then stopped and didn't move again.

"Chuck?"

He didn't answer. He was snoring.

I was glad that Chuck, at least, could get some rest. When I thought about what had happened tonight—the bloodshed, the way Chuck had looked kneeling over Jill's body, the awful moment when I thought I might lose him—I knew sleep would be a long time coming.

On the other hand, Chuck had told me he loved me. He'd recited a poem about me, even if it was the worst one I'd ever heard.

I pushed up on my elbow to look at his face. His eyes were closed, dark lashes brushing his cheekbones.

"Chuck," I whispered, "I love you, too."

He was sleeping—but his arm tightened around me, as if he'd heard me. And despite the awful events of the day, I felt safe. Letting my body relax against his, I finally managed to fall asleep.

* * *

A/N: In an effort not to add any more to this lengthy chapter, we'd just like to thank everyone for their thoughtful reviews and PMs. We did see a slight downtick in the number we normally receive, but hopefully that was just due to the system being messed up last week and not to a loss of interest. Let us know if you're still with us.

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	16. A Temporary Madness

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 16: A Temporary Madness ****  
**

For the second time in so many days, I woke up the way I'd fallen asleep, wrapped securely in Chuck's warm embrace. The only difference was, now he lay behind me, his arm draped over my waist, tucking me as close to him as possible. The room was dark, the only sounds the whir of the fan and the even susurrus of Chuck's deep breathing. The air smelled of fresh laundry detergent and a hint of the lavender soap I'd used to wash the last traces of blood from our bodies.

As soon as that association occurred to me, I couldn't let it go. Some stains were impossible to remove. Even if Jill somehow managed to survive, I'd still be labeled a killer. The woman on the grill—there was no question as to her fate. Sure, I'd taken her life for a good reason … but I couldn't forget the fact that she'd been someone's daughter—maybe someone's sister or mother or best friend. She might have been working against the side of the angels, but the people she'd left behind were most likely innocent. They didn't deserve to lose her in such a gruesome, horrific way. She would need to have a closed-casket funeral, for God's sake.

I closed my eyes, but the images of her body slumped over the grill were burned into the back of my eyelids. Behind me, I felt Chuck stir. Desperate for comfort, I turned over to look at him—and let out a shriek.

His face was a red, melted ruin. The skin was peeling off his cheeks in strips, and the flesh on his jaw bubbled, sinking inward to bare the grisly outlines of his teeth. He reached out for me with skeletal arms, his desiccated lips forming my name, and I shrieked again, pulling away so quickly that I almost fell out of bed.

"Sarah." His ice-cold fingers closed around my arm. They sank through my skin, his frigid touch penetrating my bones. When I found the courage to glance up at his face, it was collapsing, caving in on itself. And still … somehow his mouth found a way to rasp my name. "Sarah …"

I tried to yank my arm free, thrashing in fear—just as a bright light flooded the room. "Sarah … wake up, baby," Chuck said, stroking my hair. "It's just a dream."

Heart pounding, I blinked, afraid of what I might see. But when I opened my eyes again, Chuck looked like his normal, handsome self. It had been another nightmare—my subconscious attempting to cope with everything that had happened. But that didn't make it any less terrifying.

"Chuck—" I gasped for air … and burst into tears.

I tried to turn away, embarrassed, but Chuck wasn't having it. He gathered me close. "It's all right," he whispered, cradling me in his arms. "I've got you."

I couldn't help it: I sobbed, cheek pressed against his shoulder, feeling all the stress of the last twenty-four hours flow out of my body along with my tears. He didn't tell me not to cry or that everything would be okay. He just held me.

When my sobs finally died down to sniffles, I lifted my head, pressing my forehead against Chuck's. "I'm sorry."

"For what? There's no need for you to apologize. Yesterday was …" He shook his head, suppressing a shudder. "If I hadn't been drugged, I'm sure I would've had horrible dreams too."

"I—I just …" _Courage, Walker. _"I have bad dreams all the time, Chuck," I confessed, the words tumbling out. "In the CIA, there's something called a 'red test.' It's the first time you're ordered to kill someone … premeditated, knowing you're going to have to take their life … and without really knowing why. It's supposed to test your loyalty—your willingness to blindly follow orders before they'll make you a full-fledged field agent. I haven't had my red test yet, but I know it's coming soon. And almost every night, I dream about what it'll be like—how much I'll hate myself afterwards, how guilty I'll feel."

"So that's what your nightmare was about?" His voice was quiet, nonjudgmental.

"No." I tried to relax against him, but I was trembling too hard. "After yesterday—now I _know _what it'll be like. Not Jill, but the other woman I killed … the one that fell onto the burger grill … I dreamed about her. Except—except she was you." I gritted my teeth to stop them from chattering. "If anything ever happened to you because of something I did … Chuck, I … I don't think I could go on. It would destroy me."

He held me even closer. Neither of us were wearing clothes, but it didn't seem to matter. A couple weeks ago, before I'd met Chuck, the idea of being naked—of being this vulnerable—with a man would've completely freaked me out. I couldn't have imagined that I'd be cradled in someone's arms, both of us without a stitch covering us, and have sex be the last thing on his mind. My clothes—or the lack thereof—seemed irrelevant. All Chuck cared about was consoling me … making me feel better.

"Sarah. I'm okay. I'm right here," he said, gesturing to himself in the lamplight. "And I'm fine. You kept your promise to me and Ellie that I'd be safe. You're totally amazing at what you do."

Carina would've made a joke about just how _fine_ he really was—but I wasn't Carina, and at the moment, I couldn't bring myself to find refuge in suggestive humor … so I barreled on. "I used to think all I wanted was to be the best agent I could be," I said, resting my head on his shoulder. "After everything fell apart with my dad, and Graham offered me that deal—it seemed like my only option, a way to finally belong somewhere … to have some kind of purpose."

He stroked my hair, a repetitive, soothing motion, as I continued. "You're right, Chuck … I'm one of the best at what I do … and the better I performed, the prouder Graham became. No one had ever been proud of me like that before … other than my dad, for being his perfect little accomplice—as twisted as that sounds." I swallow hard, remembering. "And just like it was with my dad, I couldn't stand the thought of disappointing Graham. If he knew how much I dreaded even the _thought_ of killing someone—if he found out about my dreams—" I shook my head in disgust. What a pathetic existence I'd been living all these years.

Chuck looked stricken. "Sarah—"

I put a finger to his lips. "But now—after meeting you—I know there's something I want so much more than being Graham's rising star … his pet agent. I want the chance to have a life—a real life, with you. This past week has been … incredible. Because of you, I found my mom again. Because of you, I finally found people—a family even, who values me for who I am—not what I can do." I drew a deep breath, finding the strength to say what I knew to be true, no matter how incongruous it seemed. "Because of you … for the first time in my life, I feel safe."

His eyes widened, and the smile I'd come to love lit his face.

"After what happened last night," I said in a rush, "I'm sure Graham will be prouder than ever. I haven't talked with him yet, but I can imagine how pleased he'll be with my performance at the pier. The thing is, it had the exact opposite effect on me. I'm disgusted by what I did, even though it may have saved your life and Lenox's. I hate that either of you were in that situation in the first place. And I've come to a decision, Chuck … I want out."

I hadn't thought it was possible for Chuck's eyes to widen further, but they did. I gazed into them, seeing tiny reflections of my face. For a moment I wished I could see myself the way he did—that I could see the _world _the way he did, despite everything he'd been through. I wished I could borrow his faith.

"Really?" he said, sounding incredulous.

"Really. I want a real life away from all of this. The danger, the lies, the hopelessness, the solitude—I'm sick of it all. I want a life where I can tell the truth about who I am and what I do. Where I can have a normal job with regular people who don't spend their evenings figuring out the best way to take down a terrorist cell of armed zealots, ideologues, and fanatics." I squeezed his hand, loving the way his fingers automatically closed around mine—the way we fit together.

"I thought I needed to be some kind of emotionless robot to survive in the world," I said quietly, glancing down at our intertwined fingers. "That the best way to live was to make sure no one could ever know me well enough to hurt me again. But what I didn't realize was … by doing that, I'd closed off my heart to everything. Sure, the bad stuff couldn't get in … but neither could the good. I was alive—but I wasn't living. Not the way I am right now … lying here in your arms."

For a moment, he didn't speak, and I was afraid that I'd said too much. Yeah, Chuck had confessed a hell of a lot more to me yesterday … but he'd been under the influence. I could claim no such excuse.

"Sarah." He put a finger under my chin, lifting my face. I was afraid to meet his eyes—but when I did, I stopped worrying. They were shining, bright with happiness. "That's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever said to me."

He was so obviously sincere, it warmed the deepest part of my heart. "What do you think I should do?"

Surprise transformed his face. "What do _I _think? Sarah … it's your life. It's not for me to say."

"Yeah," I said, propping an elbow on the pillow, my cheek in my hand, "but your opinion really matters to me. I realize we've only known each other for a little while, but I've shared more with you than anyone I've ever met … and I feel like, deep down, despite our circumstances, you know me. Not the face I show to the world, but who I really am. So I'm asking … what do you think?"

It took a while for him to answer, as if he was giving my question serious consideration. Finally he said, "I think you should do whatever makes you happy, of course. But if you want my honest opinion … it worries me a little to think about what this job might do to you over the long term. What it might cost you—_us. _Not that we've talked about there being an 'us' long-term … I mean, like you said, we've only just met … that is, I wouldn't want to assume …" He clamped his mouth shut, then tried again. "What I'm trying to say is, I'll support you in whatever you decide to do. And if you decide to walk away, then I'll help you in any way I can." He gave me a small, tentative smile. "I mean, I _have _just come into a little bit of money. Enough that if you want, you could take some time off to make up your mind about what you want to do—what you want your next steps to be."

It was such a _Chuck _thing to say. I flung my arms around him, wondering if I'd ever stop being surprised by this man's innate kindness. "I wouldn't dream of taking your money, Chuck … but the fact that you'd offer—God, I don't deserve you."

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "Of course you do, Sarah. You deserve anything and everything your heart desires. And _I_ feel incredibly lucky that you'd even consider giving me a second glance."

Pulling back, I looked up at him with a penetrating gaze. "Chuck … what do you remember about last night?"

This close, there was no way for him to hide his embarrassment. He ducked his head, refusing to meet my eyes. "I, um ... I … not much after I drank from that bottle of water. Did I humiliate you—or myself—in some spectacular fashion?"

My lips twitched, remembering his awful limerick. "Um—"

"Oh, God, I did, didn't I? I'm so sorry." He looked abject. "Do I even want to know?"

"It wasn't _that_ bad," I hastened to reassure him. "You did tell me a beautiful story about your dad—how you used to look up at the stars and hope that he was looking at the same ones. You said you'd wish for him to come home."

He looked uncomfortable. "Yeah, I used to do that … a lot. Making wishes on a star, and all that. They obviously went unanswered."

It broke my heart a little that he didn't remember telling me he loved me—but maybe it was enough just to know that he felt it. "You also composed a poem for me on the spot and recited it," I said, making a desperate attempt not to let my amusement show. "It was … beautiful."

"I did?" Chuck said, sounding slightly heartened by the thought. "Well, that, at least, sounds romantic."

_Sure, if you're into solar flares. _I fought so hard to keep a straight face, but didn't quite manage it. "Yeah, very romantic. It rhymed and everything. Well … sort of."

"It was awful, wasn't it?" His voice was resigned.

"Yep." I popped the 'p.' "But hey … it's the thought that counts, right?"

"Ugh." He buried his head in his hands. "This is going to sound just as awful, but did we … did we take a shower together? I think I remember that, but then again, it could've just been my overactive imagination. I mean, I've had a couple dreams about stuff like that since you've shown up in my life. And … I can't _believe_ I just told you that. Jesus. What the hell's wrong with me?" His head was still in his hands, but his ears and the back of his neck turned bright red.

With amusement, I realized that pre-coffee Chuck was just as honest as truth-serum Chuck. "Yeah, we took a shower together. How else did you think we wound up in bed in nothing but our birthday suits?"

He blushed even harder. "I, um, well, I thought we maybe … that is, I can't imagine not remembering if we … Most of last night is such a blur. But I don't mean to insult you by implying …"

I decided to rescue him from himself. "We didn't, Chuck. I just didn't have any clean clothes for you—they're in the wash, by the way—so we came in here after and fell asleep almost as soon as our heads hit the pillows."

He lifted his face, smiling at me. The blush had begun to recede. "Well, that's a relief. Truth serum or not, I can't imagine I'd ever forget being with you like that. And I _do_ have one pretty clear memory from last night."

"What's that?" I said warily, recalling his heartfelt conversation with a potted plant.

He leaned over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "I remember that I finally found the courage to tell you how much I love you."

My breath caught. His eyes were inches from mine, so dark and gorgeous, it almost hurt to look into them. He'd wanted to freeze the moment in the shower—forever … well, I wanted to freeze this one.

Reaching over, I took his hand in mine—then came to my knees and kissed him. My tongue traced a line along his lips, then down his neck to his collarbone. He tasted like soap and salt and heaven.

"Chuck," I murmured against his skin, "I want you … now."

I heard his harsh intake of breath. "I'm all yours."

"Lie back," I whispered, and he obeyed, sinking down against the pillows. I lowered myself over him, my fingers threaded through his, pinning his hands above his head. And then I kissed him again, feeling the heat of his mouth under mine, swallowing the small noises he made.

Slowly, I worked my way down his body, nipping him with my teeth, feeling the warmth of his belly against my lips. Even with my seduction training, I didn't really know what I was doing, but it didn't matter. This was Chuck, and that made it beautiful.

He trembled beneath me, his hands tightening in my hair. It became a game to figure out what sounds I could draw from him, what made him move against me and moan—until finally he murmured, his voice rougher than I'd ever heard it, "Sarah … Come here."

I looked up at him in the dimness of the light that filtered through the bedroom's blinds. His eyes were half-shut, his lips parted. _I did this to him_, I thought, feeling an unmistakable sense of satisfaction and power. _Me.  
_

I laced my hands through his once again. Then I sank down, feeling his hips rise to meet mine, feeling him fill me. He gasped as I began to move, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. As I rose and fell, faster and faster, his gaze never left my face.

I'd never been with another man, had no idea how it might be different—but I couldn't imagine feeling closer, more intimate with anyone than I did with Chuck right now. Flashes of being with him forever, raising a family, growing old together, sparked in my mind … something I'd never even considered before I met him. He made me want to be a better person. He made me want _more _out of life_.  
_

Our bodies moved together, slick with sweat, finding a rhythm that drove us higher and higher. Chuck slipped his hands free and took hold of my hips, guiding me, gasping my name. He was such a gentle soul, it was easy to forget how big and strong he was—but his hands wrapped around me from front to back, gripping me with an urgency that sent eagerness spiraling through my body. I felt euphoria building inside me—pleasure so intense, it verged on pain—felt myself tighten around him, heard him moan.

We tumbled over the edge together, and I cried out as he shuddered beneath me. Panting, I collapsed onto his chest. We lay there, breathing hard, our hearts pounding in synchrony.

A moment passed, then two. "Chuck?" I whispered into the semi-darkness.

His fingers etched a path over my shoulders and down my back, drawing small, lazy circles. "Yeah?"

I summoned all of my courage. "I love you too."

Beneath me, I felt him freeze. Then … he was kissing me again, his touch both tender and wild, his arms wrapped so tightly around me, I found it hard to breathe.

We fell asleep that way, linked together, his body still inside mine—indistinguishable.

Two broken halves … finally made whole.

OoOoOoOoO

Someone was banging on the door.

In truth, I suspected they'd been banging on it for quite some time. The noise had crept up on me, the way some noises do while you're sleeping. At first, still lost in blissful dreams, I'd interpreted the banging as the tap-tap-tap of a brightly-colored woodpecker on a trunk that yielded candy-cane-flavored sap in a forest full of similarly tasty trees. After a while, though, I began to understand that it was, in fact, the sound of a very insistent fist, hammering on the front door of my apartment.

_Shit.  
_

Chuck must've woken up at the same time I did—and come to the same conclusion. He jumped out of bed … or at least, he tried to. His legs tangled in the sheets and he tumbled to the floor with an alarming thump.

"Ow," he muttered, rubbing his elbow. "Damn, that hurt."

I yanked open my dresser drawer and pulled on a t-shirt and some sweatpants—the first items I saw. Then I glanced around in desperation, looking for something that might fit Chuck. The only thing I could think of was my silk flowered robe, hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Oh … just fabulous.

By the time I'd grabbed it, he'd disentangled himself and was sitting on the edge of the bed. I tossed him the robe, which he caught, looking confused. "You want me to wear … this?"

"Your clothes from last night are still in the wash, remember? I'm sorry, but I don't have anything else." The hammering escalated, setting off what promised to be a throbbing headache. "For the love of God, Chuck, just put it on before whoever that is breaks down my door."

With the resigned look of a man approaching the gallows, Chuck wrapped the robe around his body and pulled the sash tight. It came halfway down his thighs and left a little bit less to the imagination than I would've liked—but at least he wasn't still butt-ass naked.

"All right," I screamed, resisting the urge to clap my hands over my ears as the hammering sped up. "I'm coming!"

I stormed down the hall and yanked open the front door with Chuck right on my heels—and froze when I saw Carina and Casey standing there. The NSA agent's fist was still raised, as if he was planning to renew his assault.

Oh, I would never hear the end of this.

"What the hell," I said, through gritted teeth.

"Well, good morning to you too." Carina's eyebrows lifted as she took in Chuck's state of undress. "Although I can see some mornings are better than … others? I have to admit that Chuckie here's a bit more adventurous than I would've imagined. Tall, dark and … kinky? Quite the blend. As for you, Blondie … when the ice melts, it really melts, huh? Talk about global warming." She fanned herself in an exaggerated fashion. "Tell me, Walker … are we talking about a bit of flash flooding or was it more like a storm surge?"

Casey pushed past me, looking disgusted. "Enough of that shit, Miller. If they want to strut around looking like extras from a damn Broadway musical_, _that's their business. Is there coffee? We've got news."

"I'll make the coffee," Chuck said, probably eager for something to do that didn't involve him remaining on front-and-center display, "—assuming you've got some?" When I nodded, he took off for the kitchen at a speed just short of a run. I couldn't blame him.

Two minutes later, the coffee was brewing and we all congregated in the living room—Casey and Carina on the couch, myself in one of the armchairs, and Chuck standing up, his arms locked around his body in an ill-fated attempt to stop the robe from gaping or riding up too high. "So, Casey … what's so important that you'd make a special trip all the way to Burbank when a simple phone call would've sufficed?" I asked, afraid to hear the answer.

"Roberts is alive," Casey said, sounding as if he wasn't sure if that was such a good thing. "She's still in the ICU recovering from surgery."

My heart skipped a beat—then started to race. "Jill is alive? You mean … I didn't kill her after all?"

"Nope." Casey shook his head. "The chief surgeon I spoke with said the moron's actions at the pier probably saved her life. She's not conscious yet, but when she is, I'll have a lot of questions for her."

I glanced at Chuck to see how he was taking this. He looked pale, but relieved. "Thank God," he said, ignoring Casey's judgmental glare. "No matter what she's done to me, I didn't want her to die. No one deserves that kind of fate."

Casey grunted, in a manner that somehow managed to convey that he thought some people deserved exactly that, thank you very much. "Well, while you two were playing what I'm sure was an epic game of hide-the-salami," he said, giving me a sidelong grimace, "I was busy extracting some very interesting information from my new pal, Tommy Delgado."

The coffeemaker beeped, and I breathed an internal sigh of relief. If I was going to give this situation anything resembling my full attention—not to mention endure ribbing from both Carina and her grumpy sidekick—I required a substantial dose of caffeine. "Hold that thought, Casey. How do you take your coffee?"

"Black." There was an edge of incredulity to his voice, as if anything else would be a sign of weakness and thus unthinkable.

"Of course," Carina muttered, loud enough so we all could hear. "Just like your soul."

I left the two of them to needle each other and went into the kitchen to grab the coffees. Chuck followed me, and silently we poured four mugs. I dumped some cream and sugar in for Carina, the way she'd always liked it, then poured Casey's cup of tar. When I turned around, Chuck was holding up a mug. "For you," he said, sounding uncertain. "I think I got it right. Light on the cream, heavy on the sugar?"

I took my coffee from him and sipped. It was perfect.

Every time I thought Chuck couldn't be any kinder or more thoughtful, he surprised me. I stood on my toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."

Unfortunately there wasn't time to say more … although I really wanted to. Together, we went back into the living room, distributed the coffees, and sat down. Well, I did, anyhow. Chuck hovered at the edge of the seating area, still self-conscious in the all-too-short robe. If only I hadn't fallen asleep before it was time to move the clothes to the dryer…

"So," Casey said, taking a sip of his liquid asphalt, "Delgado claims to be part of a group called Fulcrum. Anyone heard that name before?"

Carina and I shook our heads, but Chuck held up a finger. "Fulcrum," he said. "Now it all makes sense. 'Give me a lever and a place to stand and I will move the earth. Give me a fulcrum, and I shall move the world.' Remember?"

It was the quote at the end of the letters that Veronica Kysonim had written to Jill.

"So it's all connected," I said as the pieces came together. "Carnivore … Ominsky … Jill … the attack on the pier."

Casey cleared his throat, looking annoyed. "What's all connected? Anyone want to fill me in?"

"It's classified—but at this point I think Graham would authorize us sharing the information with you." I glanced at Carina for confirmation. "Tell us the rest of what you found out, and then I'll report in to see if I can get you clearance."

He gave a curt nod of acceptance. "Delgado claimed that Fulcrum is a rogue faction within the U.S. intelligence community. They started out as a CIA splinter faction, but from what he said they now have people in every agency. Apparently they also employ professional mercenaries and contract with civilians when needed."

"But …" Chuck said, tugging the robe's sash tighter, "what would they possibly want with me? I don't understand."

Casey gave him a look that suggested he didn't understand either. I glared at Casey, which he pretended not to notice. Instead, he took another gulp of coffee, heedless of the fact that it was scalding hot.

"They wanted you to gain leverage over someone named Orion, who they're desperate to find. When they get their hands on him, they intend to force him to help them build some kind of super-computer called the Intersect. He also mentioned an operation called the Omaha Project. Any of this ring a bell?"

Once again, Carina and I shared a glance. "That's also classified information," I said at last. "And with luck I'll be able to fill you in after I talk to Graham. Can you answer a couple more questions first?"

The NSA agent folded his arms across his chest. "Go ahead."

"Who was the bald guy—the one that was fighting Carina and tried to take Chuck?"

"Well, that still remains a bit of a mystery. Delgado only knew him as 'Leader,' but ironically that's not who Scarface reports to. A guy named Vincent Smith looks to be calling the shots—including the search for this Orion character. I'm waiting on my agency to run Smith's name and see if they come up with any hits. Might be a good idea for you to request the same. In the meantime"—he cracked his knuckles—"I plan to spend the rest of the day and this evening softening up Leader to find out what he knows."

"And I," Carina said, her voice dry, "am only too happy to help."

I was sure she was looking for a little payback. "Did he say anything about Jill or Carnivore?"

"Not much." Casey shrugged. "Delgado had just met her, and he's never heard of Ominsky. But rest assured, I'll get to the bottom of whatever's going on. In fact, I'm looking forward to it."

I got up and grabbed my phone. "All right. I'm going to go report in to Graham. If he okays it, I'll read you in on the rest. Carina, you want to join me?"

Together, we walked into my bedroom and shut the door. Carina took one look at the rumpled sheets and opened her mouth, but I poked her in the shoulder, hard enough to hurt.

"Look … you can razz me about it later, okay? Right now, let's put on our game faces and deal with Graham so we can bring Casey up to speed. I don't know about you, but I think the more we can tell him, the better our chances of figuring out what the hell's really going on."

I dialed Graham's number, and his secretary patched me through. "Sir," I said when he answered, "we have an update on the situation."

Together, Carina and I filled him in on what had happened at the pier, as well as the results of Casey's confrontation with Delgado. "Do we have permission to read him in?" I asked when we were done. "It would make future interrogations a lot more effective. Right now, he's operating in the dark."

"Well, technically Omaha is a CIA operation." I could practically hear him steepling his fingers on his immaculate desk. "But the Intersect is a joint project between the CIA and the NSA. So, yes … go ahead and brief him. I'll make sure he has the proper clearances going forward."

"Yes, sir."

"However," he said, a warning tone in his voice, "please remind him that this information is strictly 'need to know.' Confidentiality is still of the utmost importance."

"Of course, sir. But for Delgado to know about Omaha …" I let my voice trail off. I wanted Graham to be the one to say it, not me.

He finished my sentence, his voice grim. "There has to be a mole on our side of the fence. Yes, that did not escape me, Agent Walker. Rest assured, I'll launch an investigating the moment we hang up."

Which he promptly did, as per usual—leaving me talking to an empty line.

Carina and I went back into the living room, where I did as Graham had authorized and brought Casey up to speed. When I was done, he regarded Chuck, one eyebrow raised.

"So this Orion character we're looking for—he's your father?"

Chuck shrugged. "Looks that way."

"Who you haven't seen in over a decade."

"Are you trying to rub it in?"

"Just trying to understand why this Fulcrum group thinks you'd be such strong leverage." Casey shrugged. "It's not like the old man's been doing a great job looking after you all these years."

Chuck's mouth opened and closed, as if he couldn't think of a single thing to say. I wanted to throttle Casey.

"It makes sense if Chuck's dad didn't really want to leave," I said, glaring at the NSA agent. "If he only left to protect Chuck and his sister … because he cared about them and didn't want them to get hurt because of what he was involved in. Then, it makes all the sense in the world."

Chuck shot me a grateful look. Then he drained his mug and put it down next to mine. "If that's all, I'd really like to go home and change. After that, we can do … whatever it is you kids do for fun."

"Awwww." Carina gave him a flirtatious smile. "But this is such a good look on you, Chuckles. Very … avant-garde."

Sighing, I got to my feet. "Why don't we all go? With any luck, Ellie and Devon will come home soon, and we can fill them in on what's happened. Then we'll all be on the same page."

We crossed the courtyard to Chuck's apartment—Chuck moving at high velocity, out of what I could only imagine was an intense desire to prevent being seen by anyone outside our little group. He unlocked the front door in record speed and darted down the hallway to his bedroom.

"So …" Carina said as soon as he as he was out of earshot. "You have fun playing Truth or Dare?"

"Carina—"

"I mean, given the sodium pentothal and everything, I would've thought you would've spent most of last night playing 'truth or truth.' But from the way things looked when you opened that door, looks like you landed on the 'dare' side of the dial." She wiggled her eyebrows at me. "Come to think of it, maybe you didn't play Truth or Dare after all. Maybe you had a little fun playing Twister instead."

"Knock it off," I hissed, shooting a glance in Casey's direction. As it turned out, the NSA agent wasn't paying any attention to us. He was casing the apartment, probably assessing it for security risks. The guy really needed to get a life.

Chuck reappeared, wearing jeans and a green t-shirt, just as the deadbolt on the front door slid free and the door itself opened. Ellie and Devon stood there, looking nonplussed to find so many people standing in their living room.

"Yo, Chuckster," Devon said after a second. His gaze slid to Casey. "What's going on, dude?"

Chuck sighed. "We had a bit of a … busy evening. You guys know Sarah and Carina. Ellie and Devon, this is Lieutenant Colonel John Casey. He's an NSA agent."

"Naturally," Ellie muttered. "Who else would he be?"

"Hi … I'm Devon Woodcomb," Devon said, sticking out his hand for Casey to shake. Casey eyed him up and down, then—apparently deeming him worthy—actually took it.

Ellie had no interest in pleasantries. "Now what the hell would an NSA agent be doing in my living room alongside two CIA agents?" she demanded. "Oh, wait. Maybe it has something to do with … this." Striding forward, she flipped on the TV. "Before Devon and I left the hotel, I turned on the news. You know, like normal people do when they want to know what's going on in the world. And what do I happen to see?"

She made a _voila _gesture in the direction of the television set, on which a news anchor was reporting on a clash between two rival gangs at the Santa Monica Pier. Behind the anchor were the remains of the destruction we'd wreaked—rides full of bullet holes, vending carts on their sides, shops with their tattered awnings waving in the ocean breeze. "This," she said in deadly tones, "would not by any chance have to do with the four of you?"

Ellie Woodcomb on a good day was focused and determined. On a day where her little brother's life had been threatened, she was more terrifying than Delgado and Leader put together.

As much as I wanted to gloss over what had happened at the pier, I just couldn't do it. Chuck was her only family and she deserved the unadulterated truth. If I wanted her respect and acceptance, I needed to show her the same.

"We had a plan," I said, feeling like a child who'd been called to the principal's office. "There were six highly trained agents, plus Casey and Carina, on the pier. I was on the roof of a building nearby, covering everyone. But it wasn't Jill who showed up—at least, not at first. It was someone else—and when he tried to kidnap Chuck … well, all hell broke loose."

Put that way, it sounded bad … and I wasn't the only one who thought so. Ellie's eyes narrowed to slits. "Broke loose, how?"

"There was a … bit of a firefight," I said, in a vain attempt to minimize the damage. "But Chuck is fine, as you can see. He did all the right things—hiding, taking cover."

Chuck gave his sister a half-smile, rotating so she could get a good look at him. "Not a scratch on me. See?"

"You—you—" Ellie looked livid, as if her rage had become a physical object that was blocking the words from escaping her throat. Finally she managed, "You could have been killed!"

"I'm fine, Ellie. Really."

"Uh huh." She gave him a dubious look. "And what about everyone else?" She pointed back to the TV.

"Well, a few people were hurt," he admitted. "But Sarah, Casey, and Carina are all okay, as you can see—"

"Thanks to you," Carina said, giving Chuck a grateful smile.

Oh, no.

I was sure Carina had meant this to be helpful—perhaps as a way to show Ellie just how well Chuck had been able to take care of himself—but it had quite the opposite effect. Ellie rounded on Chuck, her voice dangerous. "What does she mean, Chuck? What did you do?"

"I—nothing." He shuffled his feet.

"Don't be modest! He saved my life. This goon was getting the better of me and Chuck ran right into the fray. If it hadn't been for him, I probably wouldn't be talking to you now. It was really brave." The smile reached Carina's eyes. It was her real one, not the grin she reserved for assets and marks.

"It was really stupid, is what it was!" Ellie's hands went to her hips. "Why would you do something like that, Chuck? You were supposed to stay safe. You promised! That was the deal!"

"I'm sorry." Chuck hung his head. "She was in danger and I couldn't—well, I couldn't just …"

"Of course you couldn't." Ellie sounded resigned. "When have you ever put yourself first? I knew this was a terrible idea."

At this, Chuck lifted his head, squaring his shoulders. "No … It wasn't, Ellie. What other choice did we have? All of our lives were being threatened. It was the right thing to do. And Sarah did keep me safe … even when she had to shoot Jill to do it."

Ellie's hazel eyes fixed on me. "You did what?"

"She was sneaking up behind Chuck and Carina—and she had a gun in her hand." I shuddered, reliving the moment. "I was afraid she was going to kill one of them … or both. So I shot first."

Her eyes wide, Ellie just stared at me. "Is … is she dead?"

"I thought so, but no. Chuck performed CPR on her until the medical team got there. He …" My voice caught, remembering the blood on his hands, the way his voice had sounded when he called Jill's name. "He saved her life. She's still alive, because of him."

Ellie's gaze softened. "And he's still alive, because of you."

I didn't know what to say.

Devon broke the silence. "Man, you guys had one hell of a night—and here we are, just standing around. We haven't even offered you anything to eat or drink—have we? Chuckster, where are your manners?" He clapped Chuck on the shoulder, almost knocking him over. "C'mon, I'll show you guys what we've got … and then we can wrap up this convo. Babe, the important part is that your little bro's all right. And he's even better than that—he's a hero. Let's all chill out a little, what do you say?"

Ellie rolled her eyes at him, as if 'chilling out' was the last thing she was capable of doing right now—but Casey, Carina, and Chuck all followed Devon into the kitchen, and I realized that he'd likely distracted them on purpose, to give me and Ellie some time alone. For a muscle-bound dude-bro, he was smarter than he looked. I guessed he would have to be, as a cardiothoracic surgeon … but he looked and sounded so much like such a typical surfer, it was hard to remember there was more to him than met the eye. Then again, if there wasn't, I couldn't imagine Ellie Bartowski would give him the time of day … let alone share her life and home with him.

Ellie touched my arm, and I turned to her. "Thank you for saving my little brother," she said, hugging me tight—and then she held me at arm's length, her hazel eyes probing my face. "But please, please don't ever put him in that position again, even _if_ you think you can protect him. It's just … It's not worth it. You'll need to find another way."

I bowed my head. "I won't, I promise. Last night was a complete nightmare for me, Ellie. I don't want either of you to ever be on the front lines of anything like this again. In fact, I …" I drew a deep breath, glancing around to make sure Carina and Casey weren't within hearing range. They weren't; Carina was talking to Chuck, who was gesturing animatedly, and Casey was having an in-depth conversation with Devon about their respective workout regimens. "I … um … I told Chuck about my decision to leave the CIA after we work through this and all of you are safe. I told him I want a chance at a real life … with him."

"Oh—wow." Ellie's eyes narrowed, as if she'd suspected I might have told Chuck a lot more. "That's a big deal, Sarah. How did he take it?"

"He was happy. I think. I mean, I know he was." My gaze strayed to Chuck, and I smiled—I couldn't help myself.

"I'm sure he was. You do make him happy, Sarah. And I'm glad." She hugged me again, but the look in her eyes when she pulled away was clear enough that I couldn't miss the subtext: _Don't screw this up.  
_

Chuck broke away from Carina and went back down the hall. I heard his bedroom door creak open, and, curious, excused myself from my conversation with Ellie to follow. When I peeked into his room, Chuck was sitting at his desk, typing something on his computer keyboard. I cleared my throat, and he looked up, smiling.

"Hey there," he said, and for a moment it was just us—two people who'd shared an amazing, intimate night. Then, regretfully, I got back to the business at hand.

"What're you up to now?" I gestured at his computer.

"Oh. I—well, I wanted to check on my search algorithm and input the rest of the data from the CIA file you gave me." He pointed at the manila folder, which was open on his desk. "With what we just learned—we need to find my father before Fulcrum does. The sooner I find him, the sooner all of this will be over with … and the sooner you and I can just—be together."

"That would be wonderful." I took a step inside his room, leaning back against the open door. "Chuck—I'm glad Jill's alive. I mean, there's obviously no love lost between the two of us … but I never wanted … that is, I couldn't live with …"

"I know, Sarah." Looking away from his screen, he gave me a small smile. "I'm glad, too."

"What I said before," I began. "After we—"

"Bartowski." Casey loomed up next to me. He was surprisingly quiet for such a large man, and I had to fight the urge to flinch.

Chuck wasn't as successful. "You—" he started, then tried again. "Where did you come from? You weren't there, and then suddenly you just—"

Casey rolled his eyes, as if dealing with Chuck was too much to expect him to put up with. "I just got a call," he said, brandishing his phone. "Roberts is awake … and she's specifically asking for you, Bartowski."

* * *

A/N: In a week when our country is quite literally on fire, it was nice to write a chapter that—for the most part—focused on hope and love. When the world around us falls apart, the arts have the ability to inspire us and lift us up. Thanks so much to all of you for being a supportive community and casting your creative voices into the void. We hear you and we are so glad to have you.

A/N #2: In case you're curious, the title of this chapter is lifted from a quote from Louis de Bernières' novel _Captain Corelli's Mandolin: _"When you fall in love, it is a temporary madness …Love itself is what is left over, when being in love has burned away."

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	17. There But For the Grace of Chuck

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 17: There But For the Grace of Chuck****  
**

"No, no, no. I'm sorry … but there's not a snowball's chance in _hell_ I'll ever let _that_ happen." There was a fierceness and finality to Ellie's tone. It was more than a declaration—it was a call-to-arms.

We were all standing in the kitchen of the apartment, a cup of coffee in Ellie's hand and fire in her eyes. Devon fidgeted next to her, looking like he wished he was somewhere—anywhere—else but here. The room smelled like pop-out-of-a-can cinnamon rolls—one of my guilty pleasures—and sure enough, I saw a plate of them cooling on a rack on the counter, drenched with sticky-sweet icing. No one was eating them, though. Instead, we were having a face-off: Ellie vs. Everyone Who Might Possibly Do Her Brother Harm. The moment she'd heard that Jill was awake and asking for Chuck, she'd made her viewpoint abundantly clear: _Over my dead body. _She hadn't wavered from it in the ten minutes we'd been having this discussion, and I could tell Casey was running dangerously low on patience. He wanted answers, and I was afraid that after a certain point, it wouldn't matter what Ellie had to say as far as he—and, by extension, the NSA—was concerned.

Ignoring her—or worse, overriding her—would be a monumental mistake. I just hoped Casey wasn't pigheaded enough to make it.

Chuck sighed, casting a longing glance at the cinnamon rolls … then refocused on his sister, who was on the verge of a nuclear meltdown. "Haven't we been through this already, El?"

"You're right, Chuck … we have." Ellie fisted her hands on her hips. "Right before you decided it was a grand idea to pose as bait in the middle of a gunfight!"

"To be fair," Carina pointed out, "there wasn't a gunfight when he got there."

Ellie spun, leveling Carina with a murderous glare. My partner backed up, her hands in the air. "Sorry … just trying to help." She shrugged—and then snaked out a hand to snag a cinnamon bun.

That was Carina for you—never one to turn down an opportunity to get under someone's skin … or an abundant source of sugar. If it wasn't for her rigorous workout regimen, she'd probably need a crane to get herself out of the house. I turned to her, mirroring Ellie's glare … with added interest to the tally. Antagonizing the elder Bartowski right now was like poking a bear with a stick. You just didn't do it … unless you wanted to draw back a nub.

Carina gave me an innocent look and took a bite of her cinnamon bun. Echoing Chuck's sigh, I turned to Ellie. "She's asking for him. And it might be our only chance to get some of the answers we're looking for."

Her mouth set in a stubborn line. "I'm sorry, Sarah … but the answer's still no. We've discussed this. There's got to be another way. I'm not letting Chuck anywhere near that hobgoblin, even if she's handcuffed to a bed and watched over by the goddamn Secret Service."

At this, Casey snorted, as if he didn't think the Secret Service would be up to the task … or maybe it was Ellie's colorful use of the English language; it was hard to tell. Thank God, though, he didn't say another word.

"Ellie," Chuck said, "Sarah's right. We do need answers—to so many things. Like … what really happened between me and Jill at Stanford? How close is Fulcrum to finding our dad? Who's this guy Leader, where's this Vincent Smith character, what's really up with her Uncle Bernie … and if Fulcrum doesn't have Dad, why did they try to kidnap me, if it wasn't to use as leverage over him? Something's just not adding up."

Ellie regarded him—then took a sip of her coffee and set it on the counter. She heaved a mammoth sigh. "You need to do this, don't you, little brother."

"What I _need_ to do is keep us safe, sis. And I think this is the best way to make that happen."

Her gaze went from Chuck to me, then to Carina and Casey, then back to Chuck again. "If you go," she said slowly, "if you meet with that wench, I have one condition. Devon and I go with you."

Chuck folded his arms across his chest. "Come on, Ellie. I'm not five years old. I know you want to look out for me and all, but—"

"Fine," I interjected, before he could go any further. "You can come."

Ellie's patience was wearing thin, and I couldn't blame her. I'd promised her I wouldn't put her or Chuck on the front lines anymore … yet here he was, marching right into possible danger once again. I considered myself lucky that all she asked was to be by his side.

And on a selfish level, I wasn't too crazy about Chuck being alone with Jill, either. For one thing, who knew what she might tell him, or how much it could hurt him? For another, I wasn't sure how safe it actually was for him to be around her, now that she and other key members of Fulcrum had been captured. What if the agents set to guard her weren't acting in good faith? And for a third … Chuck had loved Jill once. By now, she surely knew he'd saved her life. What if she wanted him back? It probably wasn't reasonable, but thinking of Chuck alone with her made me horribly jealous. If his sister was there too, there was no way in hell Ellie would allow Jill to stray down that path.

"What are you all looking at?" I said, since everyone was staring at me. "We don't have time to stand around here debating. If Ellie wants to come, that's her right. I'm going home to get changed; then we can leave."

Giving the platter of cinnamon buns one last covetous glance, I walked out of the room without another word.

OoOoOoOoO

We headed out ten minutes later, with Chuck, Devon, and Ellie in my Jeep and Carina and Casey following in the Crown Vic. Jill was at the Santa Monica branch of UCLA Medical Center, the closest hospital to the pier. Since Chuck knew the way, we took the lead. My stomach growled, but I ignored it. There would be time enough for breakfast after we dealt with Jill.

As we pulled out of the parking spot in front of Echo Park, Chuck cleared his throat. "I … um … I have something for you."

Bewildered, I turned my head to look at him, and he extended a napkin-wrapped object my way. "I saved you the last one. Had to defend it for you, too. And let me tell you, that wasn't easy against opportunists like Casey and Carina. Those two fight dirty."

With my free hand, I undid the napkin. Inside was a cinnamon bun. It was slightly squashed and its icing had seen better days … but nothing had ever looked so delicious.

A lump rose in my throat. I couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"I'm sorry it's so messed up," Chuck said, misinterpreting my silence. "I didn't have time to grab a Tupperware container or anything. You don't have to eat it, if you don't want to … I just thought you might be hungry, and you looked like you really wanted one. But if you—"

I wanted to kiss him, to throw my arms around him and tackle him right there in the passenger seat. But since I was responsible for piloting the Jeep, that option wasn't open to me. Instead I set the cinnamon bun down on my lap and squeezed his hand.

"Thank you," I said, sounding as choked up as I felt. "Not just for this"—I gestured at his gift—"but for being so thoughtful."

He squirmed, obviously uncomfortable with my praise. "It's just a cinnamon bun, Sarah."

"No," I said, stopping for a light, "it isn't. It's the attention to detail that led you to notice I wanted one. It's the fact that you realized I hadn't eaten. And it's the kindness that made you wrap it up and bring it to me. _That's _why I'm thanking you."

From the back of the car, I heard Ellie laugh. "She's got your number, little brother—in the best possible way. Just tell her you're welcome and be done with it."

His lips quirked up at the corners. "Would it be total overkill if I told you I'd grabbed a bottle of water, a turkey sandwich, and some wet wipes, too?"

The water and sandwich I could believe, but—"Tell me you didn't really bring me wet wipes, Chuck."

"Cinnamon buns are sticky," he said defensively. "I just … I … never mind."

He looked so downcast, I couldn't help but feel bad for teasing him. "I think it's sweet," I said. "And I'm starving. Thank you … again."

I let go of his hand and picked up the napkin that held the cinnamon bun. Squashed or not, it tasted as amazing as it smelled. As I merged onto the 101, Chuck fiddled with the radio, finally landing on a station he liked. An older jazz song was playing, and as I listened to the words, I couldn't help but wonder if he'd chosen it on purpose.

_Our love is here to stay  
_

_Not for a year  
_

_But forever and a day…  
_

Tears came to my eyes. I swallowed the last bit of the cinnamon bun and laced my fingers through Chuck's again, wet wipes be damned. We drove the rest of the way to the hospital in a somber silence, broken only by Devon's attempts to make conversation. I hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep, and the weight of everything that had happened yesterday—everything that was still happening—felt heavy enough to crush me. Chuck's hand was my anchor, the still point that kept me grounded and safe.

Thirty minutes later, we pulled up outside the medical center and parked. The building looked more like a luxury hotel than a hospital, with a portico complete with black-and-white hanging lanterns and palm trees flanking the entrance to the parking deck. Inside, the lobby was bright and high-ceilinged, with matching wall-mounted lantern-style lights and a massive wooden reception desk. We showed our badges to the staff members behind the desk and they waved us through, along with Devon, Ellie, and Chuck.

The elevator ride up to the fourth-floor intensive care unit was tense. Casey seemed to take up a great deal of the available space, and even Carina had stopped making quips. Chuck stared at the elevator's double doors, as if dreading what he'd find on the other side. As for me, I felt much the same. Jill was lying in that hospital bed because of me. Sure, she'd deserved it—but I'd done more damage to her than I'd ever done to anyone who'd lived to tell the tale. I didn't think it would be easy for me to face her.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened on a waiting area lined with sofas and chairs. The walls were painted what I imagined was supposed to be a soothing blue, but the five people sitting there looked anything but soothed. One of them, a middle-aged woman, was crying quietly in the corner of the sofa furthest from the elevator. A silver-haired man had his arm around her shoulders, murmuring to her. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, shaking her head.

I looked away from their grief, feeling like a voyeur—but the other three people didn't make me feel any better. On the opposite sofa was a guy in his thirties with dark circles under his eyes. A little girl sat next to him, nibbling peanut butter crackers and flipping through a picture book. From where I stood, I could see one of the pages: a mother llama in a blue nightgown, reading a story to a baby llama wearing red pajamas. The book was well-worn, and my heart lurched. This had to be the little girl's dad, which probably meant that her mom was the one in ICU. The thought that the little girl might've brought the book with her because it was something her mom used to read to her at bedtime … it made me catch my breath. I knew what it was like to lose a mother, even if I'd been the one doing the leaving. I wouldn't wish that on anyone, much less this adorable kid with her hair in badly-done pigtails and the tip of her tongue peeking out through her teeth as she read.

An elderly woman sat alone in one of the waiting room's chairs, paging through a magazine. She was coiffed in an outfit that looked like it had come straight from Talbot's—cowl-necked ivory sweater, paisley silk scarf, linen pants—but the pants were wrinkled, the sweater had a small stain on one cuff, and the scarf had come halfway undone from its complicated knot. When I glanced at her face, she looked as frayed as her clothing. Deep grooves were worn into either side of her mouth, and her eyes were red-rimmed. She looked like she was holding herself together through sheer force of will.

Jill was here … somewhere on the other side of those doors … because of me. She had no family at the hospital—just us, who were waiting to interrogate her. I felt sicker than ever.

"Walker!" Casey's tone was sharp, as if he'd called my name more than once. "They've buzzed us through. Come on."

The nurse who came to escort us down the hall frowned when she saw the six of us. "Only two people in the patient's room at a time," she said. "I don't care who you are."

That last jab found its mark. I was sure Casey had done what would be SOP—arranged with the agents on the ground to set up a surveillance spot from which we could hear and see everything that was going on in Jill's room. I was equally sure he'd had a camera and microphone hidden in her room somewhere. It was all, of course, being done for good reason—but that didn't mean the ICU nurses were pleased about the disruption, no matter who Casey, Carina, and I reported to.

We came to a halt outside Jill's room, where two policemen were standing guard. They acknowledged Casey with a nod—he had what I could only term a 'cop face'; I didn't suppose there was a universe in which he could look like anything but law enforcement or military, even in plainclothes—and gave the rest of us the once-over. I didn't blame them; it was their job.

"All right," Casey said, settling into parade rest. "Room next to hers is empty—we've set up shop in there. Whoever's in the surveillance room will have eyes and ears on Roberts at all times. The question is, who's going to go in with the moron here? She's made it pretty clear she'll only talk while he's present—and I'd like a shot at finding out how the hell she's tied into all this … no pun intended."

Carina raised a sculpted eyebrow. "Yeah, well, I'd like a shot at looking the woman who tried to kill me in the eye." The words were ice; her usual playful demeanor had frozen solid.

"I don't care what either of you want." My tone matched Carina's. "There's no way Chuck is going in there without me."

"Let me echo that," Ellie said, sounding equally determined. "You're interested in prying the truth out of Jill … well, I care about that inasmuch as it affects my family, but my top priority is keeping that bitch's hooks out of my little brother. She's done him enough damage."

We stared at each other, at an impasse—and then Chuck stepped between us. "I appreciate everyone looking out for me," he said, "but I want to go in alone."

My mouth dropped open. "No, Chuck. You can't."

"Yes, I can." His voice was quiet. "I want to. She's hurt, and badly. I'm betting she's cuffed to the bed. There's two policemen right out here, and all of you will just be on the other side of the wall." He gave us a small, sad smile. "Believe me, I know what Jill's capable of. But I also know she asked for me … which means I have the best chance of finding out what we need to know—as long as I'm alone."

The thought of Chuck in there by himself, with the woman who'd tried to have him kidnapped or killed—who'd maybe meant to do it herself—triggered every protective instinct I had. "But—" I began, with no clear idea what I meant to say … just that I couldn't let him walk into that room alone.

"Sarah." His eyes caught on mine and held. In them I could see everything he felt—determination, heartbreak, anger, loss … love. "Do you trust me?"

There was only one answer to that question, and I gave it without hesitation, all of my arguments dying on my lips. "Yes. More than anyone in the world."

I saw the acknowledgement of my answer reflected in those dark eyes before he leaned forward and kissed me. He stepped back without a word as Casey fitted him with an earwig—"Just because Walker trusts you doesn't mean you know shit about interrogating a suspect, moron"—then turned and entered the lion's den.

OoOoOoOoO

Jill's hospital room was a sea of white: white walls and floor and ceiling, white cabinets, white sink, white reflection from the computer monitor on the small desk next to her bed. Jill herself was ashen, a small, pale figure lying on crisp white sheets. The only spot of color in the room was the blue visitors' chair, which Chuck dragged across the floor so he could sit next to her bed.

Casey, Carina, Devon, Ellie, and I were all in the room next door, watching Chuck and Jill through wall-mounted monitors. We could hear them, too—the grating sound of the chair legs on the linoleum, the hiss of Jill's labored breathing, the beep of the machines to which she was tethered. There was a clear oxygen mask on her face and a blood pressure cuff around the arm that wasn't handcuffed to the bed's railing. On the monitor beside the bed, I watched her heart rate spike as Chuck sat down beside her.

Through the mask, I saw her force a smile. Chuck smiled back, but it was nothing like the smile he usually gave me, full of love and happiness. This one was reflexive, somewhere between an automatic response and thank-God-you're-not-dead, and I felt the irrational knot of jealousy inside me unravel just a little.

Jill's free hand went to the mask, and she pulled it down. When she spoke, her voice was weak, frail—nothing like the self-assured, Queen Bitch persona she'd worn on the two occasions we'd met. "Thank you for coming, Chuck. I'd understand if you never wanted to see me again."

He shook his head, and I thought it was as much a comment on her sorry state as it was a disavowal of what she'd said. "If you remember anything about me, Jill, you might recall that I've never been a vindictive person." _Not like you_, hung in the air between them—unspoken but clear nonetheless. "I'm glad you're doing better. For a little while there, I thought we might lose you."

She brought the oxygen mask back to her face and drew a breath. When she pulled it down again, tears were running down her face—and for once, I didn't think it was an act. "I know you were the one who saved my life, Chuck. Why would you do that, after everything I've done to you? Between breaking up with you after Stanford accused you of cheating, sleeping with Bryce, trying to kidnap you—I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd just let me die. But instead, you saved me. I'd be dead if it weren't for you. And I've been lying here for hours, just trying to figure out … why."

Chuck didn't answer right away. He regarded her, and I saw his eyes flick to the monitor displaying her vital signs, the oxygen mask she'd pulled back up over her nose and mouth, the cuff securing her to the railing. When his gaze came back to her face, it was filled with compassion. "Even after all that's happened, Jill, I still care about you. If there's one thing that I've learned in life, it's that you can't let the way other people have treated you define who you are. If I couldn't forgive the people who'd treated me badly…" He shook his head. "I've had to forgive them—forgive _you_—not for your sake, but for my own. To do more than survive … to remain the type of person I want to be, who gives others a second chance and believes in the best in people … I've had to be better than what was done to me." He paused, and his head tilted, as if playing back what he'd said. "I don't mean that to sound arrogant, or like I think I'm some kind of saint. I just … it's my way of fighting back, I guess. To say that no matter what the world's handed me, I'm not gonna let it make me cruel or bitter."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise as he continued. "But beyond that … I can't shut off my emotions like a light switch. I don't know if you ever really cared about me, or if it was all a game to you—but I cared about you. I loved you … or who I thought you were. And I couldn't stand the thought of you dying that way. You deserved better than bleeding out on the pier in a pile of trash. Anyone would."

Silence followed his words, and in the surveillance room, I heard all of us suck in a collective breath. Chuck might not be a saint, but he was a damn good human being—the type of person I aspired to be. Still, hearing him talk about his feelings for Jill wasn't easy. I tried my best to push the jealousy away, but it lingered in the pit of my stomach, a gnawing, disquieting sensation.

Jill tugged down her mask, then reached for Chuck's hand—and after a moment, he let her take it. "You said you loved me." The words were a whisper, and I had to strain to hear them. "Is that still true?"

I felt my heart stutter. Next to me, Ellie was leaning forward, as tense as a bird dog on point. Casey, on the other hand, looked bored as hell—like he was biding his time until the two of them got to the good stuff, the intel he'd come to extract. He folded his arms across his chest and glanced upward at the acoustic ceiling tiles as if praying for the patience to deal with such banalities.

For just a second, I loathed him.

"Jill—" Chuck said at last, "there's a part of me that will always love you—the part that met you at Stanford and was with you for a year. But I'm not in love with you anymore. I love you the way I love Ellie, or Devon, or Morgan, or even Bryce. Our time together was something I cherished, even if it wasn't real the way I thought it was. But it's over now … and I understand the difference."

"Jesus." Ellie glared daggers at the monitor. "I can't believe he mentioned my name in the same sentence as that conniving b—"

"Shhh." I put a hand on her arm. Chuck was still talking, and I didn't want to miss a word.

At the mention of Bryce's name, Jill's face had clouded over. She schooled her expression before she spoke again. "And Sarah? I saw the way you looked at her. You never looked at _me _that way."

Now I was the one leaning forward. I wanted desperately to hear his response—but I wished it didn't have to be shared with a room full of other people, including an emotionless, possibly homicidal robot.

Jill had disentangled her hand from Chuck's and put her mask back on while she was waiting for him to answer, so I couldn't decipher her expression … but I could see Chuck's face. He turned toward the camera, and it was as if he was talking directly to me when he said, "That's between the two of us. But yes—meeting her was a watershed moment for me. There's the time before I met Sarah … and then there's after. She changed my life—changed everything—and I wouldn't go backward if I could."

I wanted to sit there and savor what he'd said—to parse every bit of it—but Casey didn't give me a chance. He snorted, his eyes on the screen. "If I'd wanted to watch a soap opera, I'd have stayed home and turned on cable TV. Come on, Bartowski. Move it along."

It was hard not to react to someone's voice coming over an earwig, not to turn and look in the direction of the person who'd spoken or acknowledge them in some way. Still, Chuck did a good job—motivated in part, I was sure, by what had to be a powerful desire to change the subject.

"Um … so, what did you want to talk to me about?" he said, and Casey gave a grunt of satisfaction.

Jill pulled her mask back down. "I'm sure you have questions, Chuck—and after saving my life, I owe you answers … especially given my current situation." She gestured toward her cuffed hand. "I'm so sorry for how things turned out. I did care about you—more than I realized—and I know now that I gave up something that was precious to me for all the wrong reasons."

She glanced down, tracing a crease in the sheet with her index finger—and when she spoke again, I understood why she wanted to hide her face. "I didn't want to fall in love with you, Chuck. I didn't plan on it. But I fell for you just the same … and betraying you the way I have—it's broken something in me. I didn't think redemption was possible for me, that it was even worth trying. But after what you said earlier … about forgiveness …" I saw her throat move as she swallowed. Then she coughed, and fumbled for a Styrofoam cup of water on her bedside table. Chuck handed it to her and bent the straw to make it easier for her to drink. He held it as she took a sip, and the cynic in me wondered if this was all a ploy for sympathy … if she'd paused strategically to let the impact of her words sink in.

He set the cup back down, and she cleared her throat. "Sorry about that. Anyway, what you said—it made me think that maybe change is possible, even after what I've done. More than that, it makes me want to change. I … I want to be worthy of the person you once thought I was, the person you loved … even if you don't feel that way about me anymore."

Now it was Ellie's turn to snort. "What bullshit—but I've gotta hand it to her. Man, she's good."

I didn't contradict Chuck's sister—but much as it pained me to say it, I wasn't sure I agreed with her conclusion. Part of my training had been in deciphering people's body language and tones of voice, determining when they were lying. And even though I was inclined to think Jill was a couple of steps up the evolutionary ladder from a garbage heap, I believed that this time, she was telling the truth. If she had really been in love with Chuck—if she _still_ loved him—then I felt sorry for her.

Worse still, I felt empathy … because if Fulcrum was anything like the CIA, love … especially for a mark … was off the table. And even as I'd heard Jill confess how she felt about Chuck, how much she wanted to be a better person, my first reaction hadn't been _that poor woman_, but rather: _Yes. That is something we can use_.

I hated to say it, but maybe Jill and I weren't so different. Looking at her lying in the hospital bed, pain carved into the grooves of her face and her eyes fixed on the man she could've married, her expression filled with hope and regret, I thought: _There but for the grace of Chuck go I_ … and felt a rush of gratitude so intense, I had to fight not to show it on my face.

I couldn't tell whether or not Chuck believed Jill—but regardless, he reached out and patted her hand. It was a brotherly gesture—not a romantic one. "Redemption is always possible." His voice was soft. "You can start by telling me the truth. Whatever you know … it could help keep me and my family safe."

Jill nodded, and her face settled into determined lines. "Ask your questions."

Chuck sat back as she put the mask over her face and drew a deep breath. When she pulled it back down again, he said, "Okay. Who is Uncle Bernie … Carnivore … to you, and what does he have to do with all of this?"

Casey didn't move, but I felt the subtle shift in his body language so typical of law enforcement. From police to NSA to CIA, every one I'd ever met had the uncanny ability to shift from a relaxed, casual attitude to a posture that signaled high alert in the space of a second. I'd never had the opportunity to witness the change in myself, but I was sure I did the same. Even Devon looked intent for once, his eyes focused on the screen.

"I've known him all my life." Jill tried to shrug—then winced in pain. "He's a good friend of my dad's, and ever since I was little, he always gave me gifts and looked out for me. It doesn't make me feel good to say this, but since we're being honest—I was always envious of the life he led … fancy houses, expensive cars, trips all over the world." She paused and brought her mask to her face, then lowered it and went on. "Right before I graduated from high school, he came to me and offered me a job. He said he'd pay me well, and all I'd have to do is perform certain 'tasks' on campus at Stanford. When I asked him what he had in mind, he just said I'd be delivering packages or keeping an eye on someone … things like that. It didn't seem like a big deal, and I trusted him—plus I needed the money—so I agreed."

She brought her mask up for a breath, then lowered it again. "During my freshman year, that's all it was—small jobs that seemed innocent enough. Then, during the summer—Uncle Bernie told me he'd arranged some training for me. I … I was excited. I thought it was a professional development opportunity, something I could put on my resume for after I graduated. Looking back, I was so naïve … so stupid."

She stopped to take another breath. I could see the conflict on Chuck's face, his desire to say something that would make her feel better—but in the end he stayed silent, and she went on.

"He sent me to Topeka … the most boring place in the world. Before I left, I did some research, trying to learn everything about the city that I could. As far as I could tell, the most interesting thing it had to offer was Truckhenge—like Stonehenge, but with old, rusted trucks. A farmer spray-painted them with all kinds of protest slogans after the county tried to get him to clean up his land. But I digress." Another mask-assisted breath. "My point is that Truckhenge wasn't the most interesting thing about Topeka after all. When I got to the address that Uncle Bernie had given me, I discovered that it was the training facility of a secret agency called Fulcrum—and that my uncle was involved with them to the hilt. The little 'tasks' he'd been asking me to do all through freshman year—they laid the groundwork for my indoctrination into Fulcrum."

Jill lifted the mask, and when she dropped it again, she wore a resigned, ironic half-grin. "It's a good thing Topeka is so boring, because I didn't have much time to explore. I never made it to Truckhenge. Instead, I spent the majority of every day learning about Fulcrum, and their goal of 'saving the country' from the people who were in charge. By the time I understood that they weren't actually interested in saving anyone but themselves, it was too late. I was in too deep."

She gestured for another sip of water, and Chuck held the straw to her lips. When she spoke again, her voice was stronger. "They pitched a good game. At first it was all 'nice to meet you, let's talk about our mission statement and ideals.' The next thing I knew, I was learning full-blown spy-craft. And now … here I am."

"'Full-blown spy-craft.'" Chuck's voice was even. "Did that include … seduction?"

The look of guilt that flashed across Jill's face then was answer enough, and he waved the question away. "Never mind … I don't want to know, even though I have a pretty good idea. There were too many times where you just … disappeared. And there were other signs too. I just didn't want to see them."

"I knew it." Ellie's tone was just north of a snarl. "That little …"

I tuned out the rest of whatever she had to say. All I could think about was that I'd been right; Jill and I _had_ had the same training. What would I say if Chuck asked me that question? I'd have to tell him the truth … but what if he thought that meant I'd just been using him? What if it destroyed his trust in me?

Casey put paid to my worries. "Enough with the walk down memory lane, moron. Ask her who Leader is."

Looking relieved to have an alternative direction for the conversation, Chuck obeyed—but this time, Jill didn't have nearly as much to say.

"Bernie assigned him to me as my handler and contact after I finished my training. I don't know his real name … I don't think anybody does. But Chuck—he's a very dangerous man, and a remorseless killer. I may have done terrible things—but I have enough of a conscience left to care. Leader doesn't … if he ever had one to begin with." She drew a shallow breath. "If he ever threatens you, and you get the upper hand somehow—just kill him. Don't wait to be sure he means you harm, don't give him a second chance. He doesn't bluff. If he says he'll hurt you … he means it, and he'll take pleasure in it. To him, dismembering a human being who gets in his way is like taking the battery out of a car so it won't run. I've seen him do things that …" Her voice cut off abruptly, and she shivered as the heart rate on the monitor spiked again. "I can't talk about it," she said after a bad little moment. "But he's not a man you want on your trail."

Jill was afraid of Leader—I could see that much. Based on what she'd said about him, I couldn't blame her. Carina, on the other hand, just looked pissed. "That asshole," she muttered. "Should've taken him out when I had the chance. Next time, I'll be prepared."

She might be full of confidence … but I was equally consumed by horror. This sociopath—because that's what Jill was describing—was the man that Chuck had thrown himself at to save Carina's life. If Leader hadn't had orders to bring Chuck in alive, we'd be viewing his corpse in the morgue instead of leveraging him to hear Jill's confession.

Casey just grunted—a sound that somehow managed to convey both acknowledgement and disappointment. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair as Chuck said, endeavoring not to sound disturbed, "Thanks for the warning. So … who—and more importantly, _where_—is this Vincent Smith guy?"

Jill didn't ask him how he knew about Vincent Smith. By now, she'd surely surmised who I was, and by association, the types of individuals who'd comprised our task force on the pier. I'd have been shocked if she hadn't realized she was being recorded—and sure enough, her gaze flicked wryly to the spot where I would've bet Casey's men had hidden the camera before she answered, "He's in charge of the hunt for Orion. I've never met him, before you ask. All I know about him is that he's one of Fulcrum's top brass."

Casey grunted again—this time in full-on annoyance. "Ask her who Smith answers to."

"I'm not sure," Jill said after Chuck posed the question. She brought the mask to her mouth and took another few breaths. The conversation was clearly exhausting her, but she showed no sign of flagging; she meant to keep her word, and for the first time, I felt a flicker of respect. "But I think he must be based out of L.A., because rumor has it that that's where Fulcrum's leadership is headquartered—even though I've never been there. I … I'm not important enough to know for sure. I'm a foot soldier, that's all. I was just trained to follow orders."

She tensed, and I could tell it galled her to admit this. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why—she'd put everything on the line in the hopes of living a high-flying lifestyle, and instead she'd lost the man she loved, gotten used by the family friend she'd thought she could trust, and wound up half-dead in the Santa Monica ICU. After the way this mission had gone to hell, I couldn't imagine Fulcrum would be entrusting her with anything like it again anytime soon … not unless they thought they could use her to get to Chuck.

"All right." Chuck squared his shoulders. Whatever he was going to ask next, I had the sense it was personal; there was a wariness to his posture that hadn't been there before. Sure enough, he said, "How close is Fulcrum to finding my father?"

Jill took another few breaths through her mask—and this time, I had a suspicion she _was_ doing it to buy herself some time. When she emerged, she said, "They don't know where he is, Chuck. But they do know that the CIA is desperate to find him … which makes them damn eager to get there first."

Chuck slid back in his chair, until he was sitting bolt upright. "How do they know?"

This time, Jill met his eyes dead-on. "Bryce," was all she said.

I let out a stream of air through my teeth. "That fucker! I knew he was slime—but this … he could have gotten Chuck killed—"

"Shut up, Walker." Casey shot me a glare.

I obeyed—not because of him, but because of the devastated expression on Chuck's face. I wanted to kill Bryce for that alone … never mind what else he'd done.

"Bryce is working with Fulcrum?" From the way Chuck's fingers clenched on his knees, gripping the fabric tight, I could tell how much he wanted this not to be true.

"Come on, Chuck." Jill rolled her eyes, and for a moment I could see a flash of the manipulative agent I'd met that day by the fountain. "He didn't introduce us out of the goodness of his heart. Bryce only cares about Bryce. Always has."

Chuck was quiet for a long, painful moment as he absorbed this. Finally he said, "Since they don't have my father yet, why did they try to kidnap me? What did they expect to gain?"

"Two reasons." She took another few gulps of oxygen. "First, Bryce was sure you'd eventually be able to locate your dad, and second, as far as Orion is concerned, the Intersect—Project Omaha—will never work without you. Your test results in Fleming's class confirmed this. That's why Bryce framed you … to get you off the CIA's radar so that we—Fulcrum—could use you and Orion for our own gain."

"You said 'as far as Orion is concerned.'" Chuck's voice dropped into a register I'd never heard him use before—low, almost a warning. "How do you know that?"

"This is hard for me to say, especially because I know how much you've missed your dad. I haven't forgotten the stories you told me when we were together, about how you didn't understand why he abandoned you and Ellie, how much you wished he'd come home …" She swiped a trembling hand across her mouth. "Bryce was in contact with Orion as recently as six months ago. Since then, your dad has gone dark."

Ellie let out a shocked gasp, and Chuck made a muffled, choked noise, as if Jill had hit him. I could feel the waves of hurt emanating from both of them, and it was all I could do not to charge in there and slap Jill across the face, ICU patient or no. "Bryce … and my dad? My father didn't reach out to me or Ellie—but he was happy to chat with the guy who screwed me over? Did—did he know—"

He couldn't finish the sentence, but he didn't have to. We all knew what Chuck was asking.

"Your father had no idea that Bryce was Fulcrum." Jill's voice was gentle, as if, for the first time, she was the one comforting Chuck, rather than the other way around. "He just thought Bryce was a CIA junior agent—which was true, as far as it went. Orion wanted Bryce's help to keep you off the CIA's radar too … for very different reasons, of course. He didn't want you to be turned into the CIA's guinea pig—and later on, their weapon."

Chuck just stared at her. I could see the struggle reflected on his face as he fought to keep himself under control. Emotions drifted like storm clouds across his features—rage, anguish, relief.

A cold sort of calm settled over me—my training coming to the fore. "Chuck," I said, "ask her how she communicates with Bryce."

He set his jaw. I saw the effort it took to pull himself together and pose the question to Jill—but he did it.

"I have a burner phone." Her voice was hoarse. "It's in a locker in Union Station in L.A. If I tell you a locker number and a combination, can you remember it? If you write it down and someone finds it …"

"I'll remember. The phone's in the locker?"

Jill nodded. "That, and my insurance policy … intel on Fulcrum's activities and proof of what they're up to. I started to collect it almost as soon as my training was over—once I realized what kind of people they were. I knew I was a tool to them—nothing more—and once I stopped being useful, they'd probably burn me. So I made a plan."

She brought the mask back up and drew several long breaths. "It's Locker #37," she said when she dropped it again. "12-39-21."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Chuck leaned forward, puzzlement etched on his face. "If the wrong people found out..."

Jill's lips curved up in a regretful smile. "It's true what they say." Her voice was a rasp. "When you're dying … your life really does flash before your eyes. And when I saw mine—well, I was ashamed of what I'd become. Maybe this is my only chance to make things right."

"Thank you." His words were heartfelt. "No matter what you've done—this means something. It's not too late, Jill. I truly believe that." Chuck stood and squeezed her hand … then let it go. "I'll check back in on you, make sure you're doing okay. In the meantime, get some rest."

"I will. But Chuck? You can't trust anyone, including … her." Her fingers lifted, waving in the direction of the camera—indicating me, and everything I stood for. "I know she's an agent. She'll do her duty. It's what we're trained to do."

She sank back on her pillow and closed her eyes, signaling the end of the conversation, as Chuck walked out the door.

* * *

A/N: Despite the fact that we premiered a new story—The Heart of Eden—on the site this week, we still managed to get the next chapter of this one out on schedule, as promised. If you haven't had a chance, we'd love it if you'd take a look at THOE and tell us what you think. And of course, we want to know your thoughts on the newest chapter of The Guy Who Loved Me as well!

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	18. Penny for Your Thoughts

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 18: Penny for Your Thoughts****  
**

As soon as those words left Jill's mouth, I felt my heart plummet. Nausea swirled in my empty stomach and my head swam with regrets. What if Chuck believed her? What if, after everything we'd been through—everything we'd said and done—he thought I was just using him? Even from my perspective, it looked like the perfect setup for a honeytrap.

He'd asked Jill if any of her missions had involved seduction, so obviously he knew such a thing was possible. I hadn't had the chance to come clean about the seduction missions I'd taken point on with the CATS, or some of the other horrible things I'd done, before and after my time with the Company. And I hadn't told Chuck that Graham wanted to recruit him for Omaha—that even if they found his father, Chuck might be the only hope for the project's success. In light of Jill's revelations, what if he believed I was just playing the long game—that I'd set out to seduce and lure him into Graham's net? That my profession of love had been an elaborate ruse, calculated and customized to ensure his cooperation?

Not long ago, what Jill had told Chuck about me would have been the undeniable truth. I was a chameleon, accepting whatever name Graham gave me, following whatever orders he deemed necessary. My sense of self had morphed like water, accommodating whatever vessel my latest mission required—and my missions had become my touchstone. I'd had no family as far as I was concerned, no friends outside of the squad. My work—my desire to succeed—drove me forward like the lash from an invisible whip. As for what I'd lost or left behind, I'd adopted a policy of forgetting … always forgetting—a willful amnesiac surrendering of all my memories to the void. Horrible or not, they all had to go. There was just too much baggage there … too cumbersome to carry. I was reborn anew for each mission, shedding who I'd been like a snake sheds its skin.

But now—now I had a sense of who I was. I had my mother back. I loved Chuck with all my heart, and I wanted to be worthy of his love in return. I thought I'd embraced my past, accepted it … but now it felt more like a snare, one from which I could never really break free, no matter how hard I tried.

The five of us—Casey, Carina, Ellie, Devon, and I—stepped out into the hallway just in time to intercept Chuck, who was shutting the door of Jill's room behind him, acknowledging the guards standing watch. When he turned to look at me, I saw what I'd been dreading. His eyes—normally so bright and open—were guarded. I knew then that even if he didn't want to believe what Jill had said, he was thinking about it, weighing it in his mind—and how could he not? I couldn't even blame her for warning him—she was trying to look out for him, trying to make up for all the ways she'd failed him before. How could she know that meeting Chuck had triggered a seismic shift in how I saw the world and the choices I made?

I wanted to grab him by the arm and pull him into the room we'd just vacated, to tell him that what Jill had said didn't apply in our case—that he could trust me. That I would never, ever do anything to hurt him. But we were with four other people, so instead I tried to put everything I felt into the look I gave him. He met my gaze … exhaled … and dropped his eyes to the floor—and my heart sank further.

As we made our way back to the elevator, I walked next to Chuck, stealing glances at him when he didn't think I was looking. His shoulders were hunched, as if he was bearing a heavy burden. More than anything, I wanted to take it from him, or at least help share the load. But I didn't know how.

An hour had passed since we'd entered the ICU. When we walked back into the waiting room, the little girl and her father were still there … but now she'd closed her book and was tugging on her dad's sleeve. "I'm hungry," she said—not whining, simply stating a fact.

"I know, Shayna. But the nurse said she thinks your mom should be out of surgery any time now, and if we leave, we might miss her when they bring her back to her room." The man rested the flat of his hand on the little girl's head. "Can you be patient for Daddy just a little longer? Then we'll go get something to eat, I promise. Did you finish your crackers?"

"All of them." She held up the empty wrappers.

Watching them, I felt awful. Maybe there was something I could do—run down to the cafeteria or—

"Excuse me." It was Chuck. He stepped forward, crouching in front of Shayna. "I hope I'm not out of line, but I couldn't help but overhear you were hungry. Do you happen to like turkey sandwiches?"

Shayna's eyes grew wide. Slowly, she nodded. "With mustard. I don't like may-o-nnaise. It's all gross and gloopy."

"Well," Chuck said, grinning, "if it's all right with your dad, I happen to have an extra turkey sandwich right here—with no mayonnaise, I promise." He rummaged in his messenger bag and held out a Ziploc to the little girl's father. "If you're okay with her eating it, it's all yours."

Her father's eyes widened, making his resemblance to his daughter all the more pronounced. "Do you normally carry around extra turkey sandwiches … just in case?"

"No, not usually. But if I'd gotten to you a little earlier, I would've had a cinnamon bun, too." He shot me a wistful half-smile. "I do, however, have …" He dug in his bag again, producing the bottle of water and the wet wipes with a flourish. "Ta-dah!"

Shayna giggled. "You're silly."

"You wouldn't be the first person to say so." Chuck gave a playful, one-shouldered shrug. "By the way, I like your book. Talk about silly, though—do you think a llama could really wear red pajamas? How would they button them up? It's not like a llama has fingers, you know."

"It's just a book. It's _supposed_ to be pretend." She smiled at him—and then her lower lip trembled. "My mama used to read it to me before—before …" Her voice trailed off, and she turned her head, pressing it against her father's arm.

"Hey." Chuck's voice was so gentle. "I know what it's like to miss your mama. But I can promise you this—she loves you. And whatever's going on right now, she's fighting as hard as she can to get back to you. In the meantime, it looks like you have a great dad to take care of you, right? And you can take care of him too. That's what family's all about … looking out for each other."

The little girl sniffled, and I saw Chuck's gaze meet her dad's over her bent head. Then the guy reached out and took the sandwich and water bottle from Chuck, mouthing the words, "Thank you." His eyes looked a little glossy—and he wasn't the only one. When the elevator dinged and we all stepped inside, I had to wipe tears from my eyes and caught Carina trying to hide the same.

Ellie broke the silence. "Chuck," she said, sounding as choked up as I felt, "somehow you always know the right thing to do or say."

The smile he gave her was comprised equally of sadness and humility. "If I do," he said, "there's only one place I could've learned it, sis."

OoOoOoOoO

All the way down in the elevator, I pondered what I could say to Chuck to make things right. The sensation felt horribly familiar. I'd just done this yesterday, after I'd shot Jill … and here I was again, trying to figure out how to tell him that things weren't the way they seemed. Were all romantic relationships this … complicated? Surely _normal_ people didn't feel the need to explain themselves at every turn.

Well, it didn't matter. I would explain myself over and over—say anything—if it meant Chuck knew how much I cared about him. The problem was that, unlike Chuck, words had never been my forte.

Casey cleared his throat. "Walker … Miller and I should pick up where we left off questioning Leader. You up for a trip to Union Station?"

"Of course." I stood up straight, doing my best to look as if nothing was bothering me. "We'll check out Roberts' locker and report in."

The elevator reached the ground floor and dinged again as the doors opened. In a funk, I stepped out and headed across the lobby—but before I'd gotten past the front desk, Carina grabbed my bicep and pulled me to the side. "Just need a word with my partner," she said to the rest of our group. "We'll be there in a sec."

The moment everyone else exited through the lobby doors, she dropped her cheerful façade. "I know what's bugging you, Walker. Don't even try to hide it. And I don't blame you for being all twisted up. But you can't just sit there and stew."

It was a relief to not have to pretend. "You heard what Jill said. What am I supposed to do? I'm not using him, Carina, I swear. I care about him, more than I've ever cared about anyone." I swallowed hard. "I love him." The words emerged in a whisper.

Her eyebrows rose. "Well, if that's the way you feel, Blondie, then you have to do whatever it takes to make sure he understands."

"I … I've already told him. But they're just words … like the ones that came out of Jill's mouth." I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling like the tight grip was all that kept me from falling apart. "We're spies, Carina. Lies are our stock in trade. Why should he believe anything I say?"

A look of steely resolve settled over her features. "Then don't tell him."

"What do you mean?"

"You've always been a woman of action—so act. Bartowski may always know the perfect thing to say; but you don't have to. If you can't figure out what to say to let him know you're sincere … just let your actions speak for themselves."

It took a moment for her words to sink in. When they did, I threw my arms around her, enveloping her in a huge hug. "Thank you, Red. That was exactly what I needed to hear."

She was right—it wouldn't be enough to tell Chuck how I felt. I would have to find a way to show him. And I knew the perfect way.

"Okay, Blondie. Enough of that." She disentangled herself from my embrace, rolling her eyes—but I knew her well enough to see through the act. "Just promise to stop all this moping. It's not a good look for you."

We walked out together, and even though nothing had changed, I felt appreciably lighter. Now, at least, I had an idea of what I wanted to do.

OoOoOoOoO

We piled into our respective cars and took off—Carina and Casey to the warehouse where Leader was still being held, and Chuck, Ellie, Devon, and I to Los Angeles' Union Station. It was a 30-minute drive from the hospital to the train station, and every one of those minutes was fraught with tension.

To get it out of the way, I called Graham as soon as I merged onto I-10. Not wanting there to be any more secrets between me and Chuck, I did something that was definitely against protocol and possibly illegal—I put the CIA's director on speaker phone, after admonishing everyone in the car to be quiet for the duration of the call. And then I told Graham everything.

When I got to the part about Bryce's role as a Fulcrum agent, he got very quiet. And then, in a voice that was completely devoid of expression, he said, "Larkin and his new partner are on assignment in Buenos Aires. Rest assured that, given this new information, I'll issue a burn notice on him immediately and have him brought in—dead or alive."

"Yes sir," I said, as much to cover Ellie's gasp from the back seat as for the sake of agreement.

"When you have Roberts' burner phone in hand, wait for me to contact you before you do anything with it. I'll be in touch." With that, he disconnected the call.

"So," Ellie said after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, "that was the director of the CIA."

I glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "Yes—my boss, Director Graham. I'm sure what I just did was against every rule in the book—but you guys have been lied to enough. I don't want to keep any more secrets from you, even if they're just by omission."

That last comment was meant more for Chuck than anyone else, and I could tell by the way he tensed that it had hit home. Gently, he squeezed my hand—and then twisted around in his seat to talk to his sister. "The things Jill said about Dad … Ellie, are you okay?"

"Am I okay?" Her voice rose. "Chuck, you're the one I'm worried about. And I'm not even sure if we can trust the things Jill said. Yes, she sounded sincere—but she's also been working for years with some kind of secret society, or whatever the hell this Fulcrum group is. For all we know, she's still lying, trying to manipulate you even more than she already has."

"What if she's not, though?" He twisted back around, staring at the passing cars—and when I glanced over at him, I saw that same betrayed, clouded look in his eyes that I'd seen when he first stepped out of Jill's hospital room. "If she's telling the truth, Dad was probably involved in framing me and getting me kicked out of school. And I just—I can't believe he would …"

It broke my heart to hear him sound so miserable. "Chuck," I said, speeding up to pass a car that looked as if it was held together with duct tape and the power of prayer, "that's not necessarily true. Knowing Bryce, he had his own agenda the whole time. Your father probably just wanted the results of your test scores to stay secret—to protect you."

Chuck stared down at his hands, his expression still guarded. "Maybe," was all he said.

I hoped, more than anything, that what I'd said was the truth. This family—this man, who I'd fallen for so fast and hard it made me dizzy—had been hurt so much. I couldn't stand to inflict any more pain on him. All I wanted to do was love him; and all I seemed to do was hurt him.

I was scared to take his hand in comfort—frightened that if I did, he'd reject me. So instead I focused on the road, on getting to Union Station as quickly as we could. The sooner we got this over with, the sooner Chuck and I could spend some much-needed time alone.

OoOoOoOoO

I whipped the Jeep into a parking spot in one of Union Station's lots and undid my seatbelt. "Okay," I said, drawing a deep breath. "Let's go. And stay close to me at all times."

When I stepped out of the car, though, only Chuck followed me. Puzzled, I leaned in. "Aren't you guys coming?"

For the first time since I'd met her, Ellie looked uncertain. She glanced at Devon, who spoke for both of them. "Shouldn't Ellie and I stay in the Jeep?"

Startled, I shook my head. "Of course not. You're Chuck's family … and we don't leave family behind."

My eyes met Chuck's over the roof of the Jeep, and I saw his gaze soften. We made our way to the front of Union Station, with its huge arches, towering palm trees, and iconic clock tower. I'd only been here once before, and I'd forgotten how huge the station was—and how beautiful. We passed through the front archway and into the main lobby, where throngs of people circulated. Light streamed in through the three-story-high windows, illuminating the gorgeous Spanish tile floor. The ceiling's painted beams loomed high above us, the intricacy of the artwork befitting a museum rather than a train station. Oversized bronze chandeliers with stylized flowers at their centers dangled overhead, so massive I was sure they'd crush people if they ever came loose from their moorings.

That was me, always figuring out how to weaponize my surroundings. Probably another woman—another _person_—would've looked at the chandeliers and simply appreciated them for the beauty of their craftsmanship—but there I was, calculating how many human beings one of them could take out. Was this a problem—or did it mean I was better positioned to protect the people I loved?

This was a question to which I had no easy answer … so instead of trying, I took point, assessing our surroundings for threats. Scanning the crowd—including the customers at the bars and coffee shops in the concourse—I motioned for Chuck, Ellie, and Devon to follow me as I checked out the map of the station, looking for the fastest route to the lockers. Once I'd found it, I pointed it out to Chuck—in case something happened to me, someone else who knew the combination would know how to get there. Then, together, we all walked between the huge 'arrivals' and 'departures' boards, underneath the sign that read "To Trains & Bus Plaza.'

There was a lot to keep an eye on here, and I wished fervently for Carina, who would have my back—but in the absence of a partner, all I could do was keep my head on a swivel. Was that man staring at us a little too long, or had he just seen his traveling companion behind us? Had that woman read the same page of the newspaper three times? It was exhausting—especially because I would never have forgiven myself if anything happened to the three people for whom I was responsible—and I was relieved when the lockers came into view, located between a Starbucks and a restaurant that served crepes. The combined aroma of coffee and pancake batter made my stomach growl—it had been a long time since the cinnamon roll—but I forced myself to focus.

No one suspicious was hanging out near the lockers. My instincts told me we were safe—but I held back just a little longer, double- and triple-checking. Finally I felt confident enough to go ahead. "Chuck, you come with me," I said. "Ellie and Devon, would you mind waiting here for us? I don't want to attract too much attention by having all of us converge on the locker at once."

"No problem." Devon put his arm around Ellie's shoulders. "We'll just hang out while you guys … do whatever it is you need to do." He dropped me a wink. I began to worry that he was getting a little too into his part as a ride-along on Operation Open Jill's Locker … like he'd had childhood fantasies of being 007 and they were all coming true.

With a sigh, I waved Chuck forward, walking along the bank of lockers until I located #37. I turned to look; Ellie and Devon were leaning against the wall by the coffee shop, giving us space, as promised. "Here," I said to Chuck. "This one."

"I've got it." He spun the dial, entering the combination that Jill had shared with him. After a second, the lock popped open. "Should I—"

"Let me open it." Chuck stepped back as suddenly as if I'd pushed him, and I realized how abrupt I must have sounded. "Sorry," I said, my hand on the locker's release. "I just—I don't know what's in here, and I don't want anything to happen to you. I didn't mean to snap at you."

His eyes grew wide. "Do you think Jill's leading us into some kind of trap?"

"I don't think anything. In this line of work, one thing you learn is to avoid making assumptions. But if there is some kind of incendiary device in here, or—"

"You think Jill's got a bomb in this locker?" His voice cracked.

"Shhhh! Just … just step back, okay?"

He obeyed, eyebrows lowered with worry, and I swung the door open. The locker was empty aside from a dark green duffle bag. Leaning forward to shield the contents from view, I unzipped it. The bag was filled with everything Jill would need to go to ground: identification, credit cards, weapons, wigs, hair dye, sunglasses, cash, the burner phone she'd mentioned, and a large lockbox. I shook the box; a small item, likely a jump drive, rattled inside, along with the shift and slide of papers. There was no evidence of anything inherently threatening.

"You can look now." I shifted my weight, moving aside so that Chuck could see the duffle bag's contents. "It looks like she was honest with you … the phone's in here, along with what I hope is the intel she promised. Let's go."

I zipped the bag back up and gestured to Ellie and Devon, who stepped away from the wall. Together, we retraced our steps through the station and back to the car. I handed the bag to Chuck and then slid behind the wheel, heading for Echo Park.

On the way home, Ellie was uncharacteristically silent. Devon, on the other hand, seemed to have been energized by our trip to the station. "So, what was in the bag?" he asked. "Was the phone in there? Did she have—you know, any awesome stuff that'll help you bring Fulcrum down?"

His enthusiasm was so innocent and puppy-like, I couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, the phone was there, Devon. There's a box that probably has the dirt on Fulcrum that she was talking about—we'll see when we get home. I didn't want to chance opening it there—way too risky."

"Wow." He edged forward, leaning on the back of my seat. "It must be so exciting to be a spy, huh? Always on the edge of another adventure."

In the rearview mirror, I saw Ellie shoot him a glare that could've been the inspiration for the expression 'If looks could kill…' She tugged at him, hard enough so that his back hit the seat with a thud. "Don't even think about it."

"It might start out like an adventure," I told Devon, choosing my words carefully, "but after a while, you lose yourself to the job and miss out on everything that makes life worth living."

He didn't say a word, and after a moment, I found the courage to glance over at Chuck. His eyes were on my face, his gaze soft. When I looked back at the road, he turned the radio's dial, settling on something that sounded familiar. I listened harder, knowing that his song choices were rarely accidental—and then I had it: Stevie Wonder's I Believe (When I Fall in Love it Will Be Forever) … another of my mother's favorites, released before I was born. I listened to Stevie sing about the transformation from shattered dreams and worthless years to the bliss of sharing his heart and soul with someone, and I dared to hope that Chuck meant this song for me.

OoOoOoOoO

When we finally made it back to Echo Park, I asked Chuck for his keys and had everyone wait in the Jeep until I cleared the apartment complex, making sure no threats lurked inside or out. Satisfied it was safe, I walked back to the gates and waved for them to join me in the courtyard.

"All right," Ellie said, her hand on the doorknob to her apartment. "I don't know about you guys, but that was more than enough excitement for me for one day. I'm gonna sit back and relax … maybe bake some chocolate chip cookies, or something—and Devon, if you even _think _about sneaking protein powder into them again, I'll hide your favorite running shoes. Oh … and Sarah … please keep me updated if anything else comes up—otherwise, I'm going to unplug for a while."

She pushed the door open. Devon followed, muttering something about how it had just been one time—and the cookies hadn't tasted _that _bad—

"They really were disgusting," Chuck told me, _sotto voce_. "Inedible's putting it nicely. Devon ended up eating most of them, just to prove his point. Anyway … you in the mood for some chocolate?"

He seemed to have put Jill's comments behind him—but that didn't mean _I _had. "Chuck," I said, touching his arm, "can we talk first?"

That same shut-down look crept over his face. "Sure," he said—but he didn't look happy about it. Maybe he didn't _want _to talk to me alone? Maybe he was just being nice, because he didn't know any other way to be … because he was an amazing human being … but the thought of being alone with me filled him with trepidation. After Jill's warning, he probably didn't trust my intentions—although I could sense that he really wanted to.

My heart pounded as I led him over to the fountain, tugging him down, so we both were sitting on the edge. Then I looked down at our linked hands, trying to gather the courage for what I wanted—no, _needed_—to say next. If I did this, and lost him anyway—at least I would know I had followed my heart for once and left nothing off the table.

We spoke at the same time.

"Sarah, if you're trying to—"

"Chuck, I need to tell you—"

Both of us froze, and then he made a 'you first' gesture. I squeezed his hand tighter, wondering if this would be my last chance to twine my fingers through his—if he would want anything to do with me after I finished talking. "When Graham first assigned me to this mission, he told me he needed you for the Omaha project. I didn't completely understand why—but after I heard Jill talk about how Orion said you were special … something I've known since the moment I met you … I knew there was more to it than what Graham let on. It's not my decision to make … but I don't want you to be a part of Omaha. Maybe—maybe it would be best if you stopped looking for your dad. Then you could be free and we could just live our lives … together."

Chuck opened his mouth, but I held my hand up, imploring him. "If you don't mind, just let me finish. I want you to know everything about me … everything I've done, the good and the bad … so that when I ask you a really important question, you can give me an informed, honest answer. I never want you to look back and think that I tricked you or kept something from you … that you thought you were with someone other than who I really am."

I drew a deep breath—and then I laid it all out … every mission I'd undertaken, every mark I'd had to seduce, everything I'd ever done for which I felt guilty or ashamed. I told him the good things, too, the accomplishments of which I was proud. I talked and talked until my throat was dry and I had to stop for air.

When I finished, I was scared to look at Chuck's face, afraid of what I'd see there. I'd never let anyone see all of me this way, never left myself so vulnerable to judgment … especially in front of a person I cared for so deeply. But when I found the strength to look into his eyes, they didn't hold the closed-off expression I'd seen when he'd walked out of Jill's room. Instead, he just looked … relieved.

"I'm glad you told me all this," he said at last, his lips curving upward in a tentative smile. "I wouldn't want you to think you had to hide anything from me … and it makes me happy that you feel you can trust me enough to open up the way you did. I know that wasn't easy for you. But Sarah … why tell me now? What's changed?"

It was a valid question—but that didn't make it easier to answer. "Chuck—I know after what Jill said to you, you started doubting my motivations. You wouldn't be human if you didn't." I forced myself to meet his eyes—to acknowledge the uncertainty I saw there, even as it pained me. "It's okay; I understand. To be honest … before I met you, she would've been right. But with you, things are different. And it's ripping me in two to think that you might believe her … that you might think I'm using you." I bit my lip, trying to hold back tears. "It hurt me to acknowledge the similarities between me and Jill, especially because of all of the things she did to you. But … but there is one huge difference between us."

This was it—the moment of no return. "I have something for you." My pulse beating in triple-time, I rummaged in my pocket until I found a penny. Then I held it out and dropped it into Chuck's outstretched palm.

He looked at it in bewilderment. "Um … thank you—I think?"

"I know it's weird, but just hear me out." I slid closer, taking his free hand. "The night we met, I threw a penny into this fountain and made a wish. I … I wished for you to love me. More than that, I wished that I could be part of your family. For you to get your father back—and for Ellie to be my best friend. That night was the first time I knew I wanted a different life … and as crazy as it sounds, even though we'd just met … I wanted that life to be with you."

Chuck's mouth dropped open. "You … I …"

I slid off the ledge of the fountain and onto one knee on the flagstones, keeping hold of his hand. "Chuck, you're the most incredible man I've ever met. You're forgiving, brilliant, compassionate, intuitive, strong, kind, empathic, humble—and did I mention, sexy as hell?"

A blush spread across his cheekbones, and his hand trembled in mine. "Sarah, what are you doing?"

"Just what it looks like." I gave him a small, hesitant smile. "Before I met you, I thought I had everything I needed. I thought I was happy and successful—but I was so, so wrong. My life before I met you was empty, cold, and lonely … but you transformed it. You transformed _me. _I can't think of anything more wonderful than spending every day of the rest of my life with you, making you as happy as you make me … if you'll let me."

I drew a deep breath, looking up into his eyes. They were wide with what looked like amazement—and so, so beautiful. "Charles Irving Bartowski—will you marry me?"

* * *

A/N: We are so, so sorry for this cliffhanger. Well, in the spirit of honesty that Sarah's introduced to this chapter, we must admit that we are not sorry at all. What will Chuck say? Will he accept Sarah's proposal, and all that goes with it … or will he tell her that although he loves her, it's just too soon? Will Fulcrum discover Jill's perfidy? And what, exactly, is in that lockbox? Stick with us, and you'll find out … just not today.

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	19. As Boundless as the Sea

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 19: As Boundless as the Sea****  
**

I'd never given much credence to the idea of getting married before meeting the Bartowski clan. After all, the only example I'd ever had was my parents … and that had ended in nothing but heartache and misery. For so long, I'd resigned myself to merely surviving, moving from one con to the next … and after that, from one mission to the next. In my wildest dreams, I'd never imagined that I'd meet a man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, much less that I'd be down on one knee, on flagstones that I had to admit were becoming more than a little uncomfortable, waiting to hear his answer after _I'd_ been the one to propose.

Chuck stared at me, his eyes wide with shock and his mouth agape. "I …" he began. "I just … did you …" He swallowed hard, then tried again. "I must be hearing things, because I could've sworn that you just … proposed to me. Maybe I'm more tired than I thought—or maybe that truth serum has some seriously bizarre side effects, because the alternative—it just doesn't …" He shook his head, closed his eyes, then opened them again. "Nope, you're still there. On your knees. Knee. Like you'd be if you'd really …" His voice trailed off. "Did you, Sarah? Just propose to me?"

Despite the anxiety that was percolating throughout my body, I couldn't help but smile. Chuck always had that effect on me. "Yes, Chuck, I did. And I'd love an answer sometime soon … because quite frankly, the suspense is killing me."

His mouth snapped shut with a click. Then he opened it again. "You did … you really … Oh my God, I can't even …"

My heart plummeted. "So, is that a no, then? I mean, I know it's ridiculously quick. You probably think I'm crazy, huh?"

Chuck scrambled to his feet, and for a horrified moment I thought he was going to stride off and leave me there kneeling—not that that seemed like something he would ever do. To my relief, instead he turned toward the fountain, closed his eyes again … and tossed in the penny I'd just given him. It fell with a plunk, sinking toward the bottom … much like my heart. Was this his way of rejecting my proposal—and everything that went along with it?

But when he spun around to face me again, he was smiling—a huge, radiant grin. "Sarah … do you want to know what I just wished for?"

I wasn't sure. He was smiling, so it couldn't be too terrible—right? But—but what if—

Forcing myself to calm down, I took a deep breath and met his eyes. "Yes, Chuck. At least, I think I do."

He reached down and grabbed my hands, tugging me off the ground to sit next to him on the fountain's ledge. "I wished for a short engagement and a long and prosperous life with you, Samana Elisabeth Wozniak, soon to be Bartowski—or Wozniak-Bartowski—or Bartowski-Walker … whatever you want. I wished for us to have a small horde of happy and healthy children together, who have as much spirit and determination as their mother does … and her eyes and smile too, while I was at it." He squeezed my hands, stroking the backs with his thumbs. "I asked for us to grow old together, never forgetting that the best is yet to come. And finally, I begged the fountain gods—if they exist—to bring you peace, so that you can find the light in your life you crave … and deserve." Shyly, he met my eyes. "I know that was a lot to ask for the price of admission … but it was a really, really special penny."

Now I was the one who was worried I might be hearing things. "Chuck … before I have a heart attack—did you just say … yes?"

He cupped my face in his hands, staring into my eyes. "I thought I'd made that perfectly clear, but … yes, Sarah. I did. Or, I do? Or …"

Before he could say anything else, I leaned forward and kissed him. I put everything I was feeling into that kiss—all the love, all the gratitude, all the passion—and he responded in kind. His hands slid down to my shoulders, pulling me closer, sending warmth rippling through me. I twined my fingers through his curls, marveling as I always did at their silky texture, and tugged him closer still.

Three weeks ago I hadn't even known this amazing man—now, I couldn't imagine my life without him. And because he'd said yes … I'd never have to. I breathed him in—the spicy fragrance of his soap, the lingering aroma of cinnamon, and the familiar, fantastic scent that was just _Chuck_. I was sure I could pick him out in a crowded room if I was blindfolded … and it would feel like finding my way home.

Wind gusted through the courtyard, spraying us both with cold water from the fountain. I jumped, startled, and Chuck laughed. "Maybe someone's trying to send us a message. No more making out where my sister can see. Although if she was peeking through the curtains a few minutes ago, she might've gotten more than she bargained for." He drew back, taking my hands in his. "I can't believe you asked me to marry you. It doesn't feel real. How in the world did I get so lucky?"

"You? I'm the lucky one, Chuck. I can't believe I found you … that a guy like you actually exists. I keep thinking that I'm dreaming … that I'm going to wake up and discover that I'm still in Virginia, and all of this was some type of fantasy." Tears rose in my eyes for the second time that day, and I swiped them away.

"Oh, Sarah, no—don't cry, baby." He looked appalled. "I'll never understand why you have such a low opinion of yourself—why you don't think you deserve the very best life has to offer. I want to spend the rest of mine changing that … and I'm so incredibly dumbfounded and … yeah, amazed that you're giving me that opportunity. You could have anyone in the world, and yet you chose me. I plan on dedicating the balance of my time on this planet to making sure you don't regret it."

"Wow. Ellie's right." I giggled through my tears.

"She usually is—but don't tell her I said that. She'd never let me live it down." Smiling, he brushed my hair back from my face. "But seriously … right about what?"

"That you always know the right thing to do or say." I looked up at him, shrugging. "Carina told me earlier that I've always been a woman of action—and it sounds so stupid, but she's right. Words have never been my strong suit. That's why I … did this." I gestured at the flagstones where I'd been kneeling. "It was the best way I could think of to show you how much you mean to me and how I never want to lose you."

"I beg to differ. For someone who isn't good with words, I think that proposal was pretty damn amazing. But I have to ask—how long have you been planning this?"

"Um, I—"

"It was the limerick, wasn't it? My limerick did you in." He batted his eyes at me, lips curving in a crooked smile.

"You've got me. How could I resist a guy who made my name rhyme with 'solar flare-ah?'"

Chuck groaned theatrically, dropping his head into his hands. "Tell me I didn't."

"I wish I could."

He peeked up at me, only his eyes visible over the tops of his fingers. "Sarah, I hate to say it, but I think you're betting on the wrong horse here. Get out while you still can."

"It's way too late for that," I said softly, ruffling his curls. "And I actually thought the limerick—though absolutely terrible—was very … sweet."

"And you say you don't have a way with words." He stood up, extending a hand to me. "Okay, come on."

"Where are we going?" I said, slipping my hand into his and getting to my feet. It didn't really matter. I would follow him anywhere.

His smile could've illuminated the entire Western seaboard. "To tell my sister we're getting married."

OoOoOoOoO

Proposing to Chuck had been a relatively impromptu decision—but far and away the best choice I'd ever made. Still, I hadn't thought through the next steps … namely, telling Ellie and Devon that we were engaged. I knew Ellie liked me—but I wasn't so sure she'd forgiven me for all the chaos I'd brought into their lives and the fact that I'd put Chuck in danger. How would she feel about the fact that I'd basically tethered Chuck to me forever? What if she hated the idea? Worse yet, what if she tried to talk him out of it?

"Your sister said she needed some down time, Chuck," I protested as he dragged me toward the front door of his apartment, holding the duffle bag in the hand that wasn't entwined with mine. "She said she wanted to relax and bake some cookies … and read a book …"

"She also said to keep her updated if anything else comes up." He smiled down at me, wiggling his eyebrows. "Trust me, she'll want to hear this."

"Yeah," I muttered as he opened the front door and ushered me inside. The house smelled fantastic, like vanilla and sugar. "That's just what I'm afraid of."

He turned back to look at me. "What was that?"

"I said … maybe Ellie will agree to be my maid of—" I was mercifully spared from finishing that sentence by the arrival of the woman herself, wearing—was that an apron that read 'Freud Chicken,' with a picture of the gentleman posing like Colonel Sanders?

"There you guys are!" she said. "Just in time to eat some—Sarah, why are you staring at me that way?"

"It's … your apron," I managed. "I just—it's very original." _It's very original? _Was that the best I could come up with? A family full of geniuses, and here I was, forever doomed to be the dim bulb in the chandelier.

She glanced down at it, and then gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Yeah. Devon got it for me last Christmas. Everyone knows Freud as the father of psychoanalysis, but he was actually a neurologist, so … It's a little joke between us, since I happen to _love _fried chicken, especially at a certain time of the month."

Chuck held up his hand, palm out. "Totally TMI, Ellie."

Her hazel gaze shifted between the two of us, assessing. "What's up? You two look like … like you've both just won the lottery or something, and I don't think it's because you're excited to eat my cookies. So, what's going on?"

Chuck grabbed my hand and bounced on the balls of his feet, looking as gleeful as a little kid who'd just been told that Santa was on the way. "We—um—we, ah—"

"Oh, boy." Ellie took a step back, her eyes narrowing. "Are you two trying to tell me that Sarah's pregnant?"

"No!" I blurted, before I had a chance to rein it back in. That was the _last _thing I needed right now … although if there was ever a guy who would make a wonderful father, it was Chuck—and he did say he wanted a small horde, right? Before I could get too freaked out by that thought, I plowed forward. "We're getting married, Ellie. Not today, obviously." I could feel the blush heating my cheeks. "But … I asked Chuck, and he said yes."

For the first time since I'd met Ellie Bartowski, she was struck speechless. For a moment she just stared at us—and then she threw her arms around her brother, so hard that he emitted a startled, "Ooof!"

She let go of him and hugged me just as hard, if not harder. "Oh my God, I can't believe it. That's the most wonderful thing I've ever … you guys are so perfect together. You bring out the best in each other. I just—I can't—Devon!" She yelled this last loud enough that I had to take a step back, extricating myself from her grip.

He came running out of the kitchen, a dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, looking panicked. "What? What happened? Are we under attack?"

"'Under attack?'" She rolled her eyes at him. "Don't be ridiculous. This isn't a war zone. And no. Guess what? You'll never guess. But guess!"

Understandably, Devon looked nonplussed. "Babe, you're not making any sense."

"That's because I'm so happy." She bounced up and down like her brother, her eyes shining.

"But I thought you were tired," Devon said, sounding more confused than ever. "And in need of cookies and a good book. That's what you said."

"That was before." She flung her arms around me again. "Chuck and Sarah are getting married!"

"What?" His mouth fell open. "For real?"

Chuck nodded, so enthusiastically he reminded me of a bobblehead doll, and Devon slapped him on the back, sending him stumbling forward. "Dude, that is so totally awesome. Unexpected, but … awesome. How'd you pop the question?"

To my amusement, Chuck blushed. "Actually, Sarah proposed to me."

Devon looked bemused all over again. "Really? Wow." He paused, visibly regrouping. "You know what? I think that's even cooler. So … did you have a ring for him and everything?"

"No …" I stole a glance at Chuck, but he didn't look embarrassed anymore. Instead, he looked … proud. "I had a penny," I admitted. "As it turned out, a pretty lucky one."

"A penny? I don't get it—" Devon began, but Ellie cut him off with a backhand to his chest.

She turned to him, straightening her spine and assuming her usual air of command. "Cookies and coffee are going to be totally inadequate. It's time to break out that bottle of bubbly we've been saving for a special occasion … because I can't think of any occasion more special than this."

We sat and drank champagne for the next hour, toasting our engagement and eating handfuls of Ellie's delicious double-chocolate-chip cookies. "The secret," Ellie confided after our second glass of champagne, "is Betty Crocker's Chocolate Fudge Cake mix. That's the base, and then I add in another whole bag of chocolate chips. There can never be too much chocolate, in my professional opinion."

"Nor in mine," I said, eating my sixth cookie. God, they were amazing. "As a professional cookie consumer, I concur that the level of my cookie appreciation is directly proportional to the level of chocolate included in said cookie."

Ellie shot me an amused look. "If I'd known that I was dealing with a professional cookie consumer, I might've upped my game."

"I don't see how you could have. These are … mmmm." I gave a throaty moan of satisfaction—and then felt my face heat when Chuck and Devon both turned to stare at me. "It's the cookies," I managed by way of explanation. "They're just really … um …" I looked down at my watch, desperate for a way out. "Wow, is it that late already? I should get home and check out what's in that lockbox—and Director Graham will probably be calling me soon. Chuck … do you want to come with me?"

OoOoOoOoO

A few minutes later, slightly buzzed from the combined effects of the champagne and a sugar rush, with Devon and Ellie's congratulations still ringing in our ears, we staggered across the courtyard and back to my apartment. I shut the door behind us and locked it, scanning the living room to make sure no one was lurking behind the couch or under the table. Thankfully, the apartment was clear; we were alone.

And we were engaged. How the hell had that happened?

I knew how it had happened, of course. I'd asked Chuck to marry me, and he'd said yes. But still, it felt surreal—bizarre.

"Um," Chuck said, setting the duffle bag down on one of the armchairs, "you probably need to open this up and get to work, huh? And I guess I should call Morgan and fill him in on everything that's happened while you do. He's left a bunch of messages. I bet he's about to go through withdrawals if I don't respond soon."

The champagne must've truly gone to my head, because instead of saying what I knew I ought to—_yes, I have to see what's in there, we've waited too long already—_I crossed the room, locked my arms around Chuck's neck, and kissed him like I might never have the chance to do it again. The ferocity of my attack took him by surprise, and he lost his balance, tumbling to the floor. Since his arms were around me, I fell too, winding up on top of him. He tried to apologize, but before he could, I kissed him again, trailing my lips down the edge of his jawline, nibbling the sensitive area at the base of his neck. He shivered, rolling so that I was beneath him. "Sarah?"

"Hmmm?"

"The lockbox," he murmured. "Don't you have to—"

"Forget the lockbox, Chuck." I strained upward, capturing his lips with mine again. His tongue traced the edges of my lips, then slipped inside. He tasted like chocolate and champagne, an intoxicating blend that I couldn't get enough of.

"Really?" He pulled back, propping himself up on his elbows. His eyes were dreamy and hazed, struggling to focus on my face. "Because I don't want to take you away from your work …"

Was he being serious right now? "Chuck," I said, "believe me, you're not taking me anywhere I don't want to go."

"Are you sure?"

In answer, I wrapped my legs around his hips, locking my feet at the ankles. With a groan, he surrendered, lowering his lips to mine once more.

The next time I really paid any attention to my surroundings, the sun was dipping below the horizon, casting the room in shadow. We'd somehow made it to my bed, after our first go-round on the living room floor, our second on the kitchen table, and our third in here. Chuck lay with his head on my belly and his arm curled around one of my legs, humming in contentment as I wound my fingers through his curls.

"Hey, Mrs. Almost Walker-Bartowski," he said, his breath warm on my skin.

"I don't know if I want to hyphenate," I told him. "I mean, that's quite a mouthful, don't you think?"

He surged upward, covering my body with his. "Whatever you want," he said. "I mean that, Sarah. About the name … about marrying me … about your career. Whatever you want, that's what we'll do."

"You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Almost Bartowski-Walker." I arched against him, driving a moan from his throat.

"I thought you didn't want to hyphenate," he whispered, one large, warm hand skating over my hip.

"You should know that as a woman I reserve the right to change my mind." I skimmed my nails down his spine … then reached lower. He made an inarticulate noise that sounded vaguely like "too good to be true" … and that was the last thing he said for some time.

After Round 4, we fell asleep. I was dreaming of Chuck feeding me a hot fudge sundae with caramel sauce and maraschino cherries, the spoon poised halfway to my mouth, when the phone rang, startling me into wakefulness.

For a second I had no idea where I was. Then I looked at Chuck sprawled out beside me, beginning to stir … and it all came rushing back. I allowed myself a moment of perfect bliss before I grabbed for the phone and saw the name that flashed on the screen: Graham.

Motioning to Chuck to stay quiet, I pushed the 'accept' button. "Yes, sir," I said, trying to sound as professional as possible—as if I wasn't lying naked in bed with an adorable, tousle-haired guy pressed up against my side.

"Agent Walker," Graham said in what I thought of as his bad-news voice.

Oh, shit. I scooted upward, my back against the headboard, pulling the covers up as high as I could get them. In the process, I dislodged Chuck, who eyed me with alarm. Then I pressed the "speaker" button and waited for the other shoe to drop.

Sure enough, Graham said, "I'm afraid I have bad news."

"What is it, sir?" I did my best to chase the sleep from my voice.

As usual, he didn't try to soften the blow. "Larkin and his partner have gone to ground. We believe Fulcrum must've gotten word to him that Jill's team was captured and his cover as a CIA operative might be blown. At any rate, he's nowhere to be found."

_Shit, shit, shit. _"Sir," I said as Chuck sat up next to me, eyes wide, "if I may—who did you assign as Larkin's new partner?"

"Someone you know quite well, actually. Amy Monroe, your former teammate."

This just kept getting more and more twisted. "Have you tried to reach out to Amy personally?"

"I have, Agent Walker—many times, with every protocol we have and zero results." The steely tone of his voice told me all I needed to know about this turn of events … and it also had me wondering about something else.

When I'd left the CATS, I'd blamed my former teammate, Zondra, for an act of betrayal that had destroyed our friendship. Everyone had believed she was guilty, myself most of all—but Zondra had insisted she'd been framed. In light of this new piece of information, Amy might be incapacitated, dead … or gone to ground with a known traitor. If it was the latter, perhaps Zondra had been telling the truth after all. In which case … I was basically the worst friend ever.

I had to talk to Carina about this … but right now, we had bigger problems. "What would you like me to do, sir?"

"Go ahead and try to contact Larkin using Roberts' burner, now that we have a tracer on that line. Our analysts are standing by. Larkin poses a clear and present danger not only to the Bartowski family, but to national security as well."

The Bartowski family … which I would soon be a part of. God, I was so going to carve a sizable chunk out of Bryce's ass as soon as we found him. What a worthless piece of shit.

"Yes, sir," I said, endeavoring to keep the fury from my voice.

"Have you had an opportunity to comb through the contents of Roberts' lockbox?"

I did the only thing I could do in this situation … I lied. "Not yet, sir. I've been too busy dealing with the fallout to the Bartowskis over the revelations from Roberts' interrogation … not to mention the implications of Chuck's father's possible involvement in his expulsion from Stanford." _And proposing to Chuck … and having mind-blowing sex with him on every available surface in my apartment …  
_

"Hmmm. I want you to consider that your top priority after you attempt to reach out to Larkin. Report in when you have something for me, Agent." As usual, he hung up before I could say goodbye.

Chuck and I stared at each other for a moment. Then he said, "Bryce is gone? But—where would he go?"

"I have no idea," I said grimly, getting out of bed. "But we're gonna find out."

OoOoOoOoO

It took a while for us to find all of our clothes—we discovered Chuck's boxers under the sofa and my bra draped over the living room lamp—but as soon as we were dressed, I grabbed the duffle bag, rummaged in it for the phone, and called Bryce. To my surprise, he answered on the first ring.

"Jill … thank God," he said, sounding relieved. "Where the hell are you?"

I put him on speaker and glanced at Chuck, who was sitting next to me on the couch, his shoulders set as if for battle. The longer I kept Bryce on the phone, the better chance the analyst would have to track his—and, hopefully, Amy's—location. That meant stringing him along a bit … and God, I hated to drag Chuck into this. Still, he'd insisted he wanted to do whatever he could to help … and the surprise factor of finding Chuck on the other end of the line would probably go a long way toward making sure Bryce didn't hang up.

That said, there was no way I was going to throw Chuck to the wolves without wading into the fray first. "I'm sorry, Bryce, but Jill can't come to the phone right now. What … are you missing her? Since I wouldn't give you the time of day, much less sleep with you, and Tiffany dumped your sorry ass for _cheating on me_"—I imbued the last three words with as much sarcasm as I could muster—"I heard you found yourself another blond-haired, blue-eyed babe to try and coax into your bed. And call me crazy, but I don't think Jill's really your type … although from what I hear, she was once. I guess things change, huh?"

Silence fell. And then Bryce said, his tone deadly, "Agent Walker, is that you?"

"Guilty as charged." I made it as breezy as I could manage.

"What in the ever-loving fuck? Why do you have Jill's phone? Where is she?"

"Well," I said sweetly, "last time I saw her, she was fighting for her life in the ICU. Apparently she's allergic to bullets to the chest. Must be a side effect of being a traitor to your country." I made a small humming sound. "You might want to get yourself checked out, _ex_-agent Larkin. I hear it's highly contagious and potentially fatal … if not _caught_ early."

"She … what? What happened to her?" He sounded stunned.

"I happened to her. Or rather, my rifle did." I caught Chuck's eye, hoping to convey that my insouciance was all an act. "She made the mistake of threatening to shoot Chuck—and, well, all I can say is, I take care of what's mine."

"You shot Jill?"

"Some of my best work, if I do say so myself. I'm glad I didn't kill her … because when we talked to her at the hospital, she sang like the proverbial canary. Looks like you trusted the wrong person, Bryce. But I guess it's easy to be a lousy judge of character when you have so little of it yourself."

"Ouch," Chuck mouthed, just as Bryce growled, "You bitch!"

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't meant as one and you know it. How bad off is she?"

"Oh, is that a touch of concern I hear in your voice, ex-agent Larkin? Well, if you're really worried, why don't you come on out to the hospital and check on her yourself? I'd be happy to meet you there. You know, for old times' sake."

"If she dies," he said, "I won't rest until you join her."

"Oh, really?" I twined a strand of hair around my index finger. "Please do come looking for me, Bryce. I would so look forward to seeing you again. I feel like we have some … unfinished business."

"We're done here," he said—but before he could hang up, Chuck cleared his throat.

"Hey, buddy," he said. "Miss me?"

"Chuck?" For the first time, I heard a crack in Bryce's veneer. "Is that you?"

"Yeah. Seems like this is old home week. First Jill shows up … and now here _you _are … just like old times. Except she's in a hospital bed and you're on the run, and I'm … hmmm. Let's just say, it looks like I've gotten the better end of the deal."

"Chuck." Bryce sounded almost panicked. "I can explain."

"Yeah? Please do. I'd love to hear it."

Bryce began babbling some bullshit about how he'd never meant to hurt Chuck, he'd only wanted to protect him, blah blah blah, as I grabbed my phone and edged into the next room to call Graham. "Do you have a location yet?" I asked as soon as he answered.

"Not yet," he said, "but soon. Keep him talking as long as you can. Every minute counts."

"Understood, sir."

I hung up and went back into the living room, just in time to hear Bryce say, "—and she was only too happy to screw my brains out … in your bed, no less. You know how it is, Chuck … replacing the mediocre with something a little more spectacular. I can't believe you fell for that shtick—thinking a girl like her would ever be into someone like you."

Wow. Sometime between when I'd left the room and when I'd returned, the gloves had come off … and Bryce wasn't pulling his punches. That was Larkin for you … relatively decent until he realized the charming approach wasn't working, at which point he felt free to let his douche-bag flag fly.

Leave it to him to bring up one of the most upsetting episodes of Chuck's life. I braced myself to step in to soften the blow—but to my amazement, Chuck gave me a dazzling smile. Eyes locked on my face, he said, "Actually, Bryce, that was the best thing that could've ever happened to me. I couldn't see it at the time, of course, but … I owe you a huge favor … brother."

Silence hung like drywall on the other end of the line.

"Also," Chuck continued, sounding as cheerful as a Mormon missionary on a house call, "though there _was_ a time in my life where I envied you for always getting the great girls … I'm the guy that ended up with the greatest one of all. And look at you. You're on the run, a traitor to your country, no diploma or any real future to speak of … and I'm getting married to Sarah Freakin' Walker. As far as I'm concerned … you can suck it, Bryce."

"Fuck you," Bryce said—ever the master of the witty one-liner—and disconnected the call.

Immediately, I called Graham back. "Did you get it?"

"Not quite." I could hear him shuffling papers. "We triangulated his position somewhere near the California/Mexico border … so he hasn't gone far. We'll get him, Agent Walker."

When we hung up, I called Carina and told her she needed to get to Echo Park ASAP. Then I grabbed the lockbox and started rifling through its contents, handing the USB drive to Chuck to investigate while I pored through the rest. He went into the kitchen to make us some coffee, then sat down beside me, pulled his laptop out of his satchel, inserted the thumb-drive and got to work.

A strange, unfamiliar sensation trickled through my body as we worked. Listening to the coffee perk, breathing in the rich, earthy scent that filled my apartment, I tried to place the feeling … and then I knew.

I'd had a partnership of sorts with my dad—if 'partners in crime' counted. I'd had what I thought were true partnerships with my CATS teammates … until everything had gone to hell in a bucket. Graham had attempted to forge a partnership between me and Bryce—and just look how _that _had turned out. But as Chuck sorted through the data on the USB drive at blinding speed, I realized I now had something none of them could've ever given me: A partner in life.

In the past twenty-four hours, I'd killed one woman and critically wounded another; seen the man I loved under the influence of truth serum, pouring his heart out to a potted plant; heard the confessions of his ex-girlfriend, implicating a faction of renegade, anti-government radicals; had life-altering sex on every surface my apartment could accommodate; discovered the woman I'd thought had betrayed me was probably telling the truth all along; and gotten engaged. It had been eventful—to say the least. And yet, as I spread the pages of supposed Fulcrum intel out on my coffee table, searching through them for clues that might shed some light on the mess we were in … despite the overwhelming odds stacked against us, I'd never felt so at peace.

* * *

A/N: Oh, man … now we really want some of Ellie's delectable cookies. Seriously, though, Chuck said yes to the dress—and now we've got a wedding to plan … if Bryce, Jill, and whoever's lurking in the wings don't manage to screw things up first. Here's to clear skies and smooth sailing for our favorite couple—but not _too _smooth, if you know what we mean. Where's the fun in that?

Oh yeah, and if you were wondering about the title—it's lifted from Romeo and Juliet: "My bounty is as boundless as the sea/My love as deep." Let's hope Chuck and Sarah fare a little better than those two hapless teens!

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	20. The Art of Eating Crow

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 20: The Art of Eating Crow****  
**

I hadn't experienced anything akin to a real Christmas since I was seven, and the past ten days had felt like something straight out of _The Nutcracker and Mouse King_. As soon as Chuck realized just how much I secretly loathed this particular holiday—due to the years I'd spent working the annual Salvation Army con job with my dad—he'd made it his mission to do something special for me each day. He'd taken me Christmas tree shopping to cover the basics; brought me to Norton's Winter Wonderland, the family estate famous for their festive carousel, Ferris wheel, and North Pole Express train; driven me to see the best Christmas lighting displays Burbank had to offer; bought tickets for the two of us to Universal Studio's Grinchmas show; surprised me with a day-trip to Burbank's Holiday in the Park street fair; and spent hours making the world's worst batch of homemade eggnog.

To be fair, everyone else seemed to like the eggnog just fine. Maybe my taste buds had been tainted by years of watching my father dump slugs of Hennessey into glass after glass of Turkey Hill each December. "Merry Christmas, darlin'," he'd slur, lifting his glass high in a toast. "To us—the best partners in the business." I'd never really dug eggnog; after that, I'd lost my taste for it entirely.

I hadn't told Chuck that story, of course; it would've hurt his feelings, and he was falling all over himself to make sure that _this_ Christmas was as magical as possible—quite literally. Just five minutes ago, he'd almost tumbled off a ladder, which he'd climbed in order to string twinkling white lights along the crown molding of my apartment's living room. I'd leapt up to steady him, and it'd been so cute when he tried to play it off.

"I'm okay!" he'd assured me, even though he was still clutching the ladder like the kitten clinging to the tree in the quintessential 1980s 'Hang in There!' poster. "I'm great, actually! Nothing to worry about!"

I'd made him climb down anyway and convinced him to take a break. Now we were sitting on my couch, my feet in his lap and a balsam-scented candle burning on my coffee table, and he was happily listing all of the other ways we could commemorate our first Christmas together.

"You know, we could always go ice skating again," he suggested. "Or we could go to the Christmas Prop Shoppe—that place is amazing. They supply holiday props for all of the movie studios … anything you could possibly imagine. Or we could get some more ornaments for your tree. Or …"

His voice trailed off as he dug his thumbs into the arches of my feet. I let out a moan of pure contentment, and he gave me what was probably meant to be a seductive look, but came across more like a plea. "Or," he said, drawing out the word, "we could stay in … ya know … and, um, watch Christmas movies. There's _Home Alone _… that's a classic … and, of course, _Die Hard_—which some people maintain isn't a feel-good Christmas flick, but that's a hill I'm willing to fight and die on. Then there's _National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, _and _It's a Wonderful Life, _and _A Christmas Story, _and … it really depends what genre you're in the mood for. Classic, romantic, funny, sentimental …"

"I don't care what we do." I smiled at him, hugging a pillow to my chest. "I only care that it's with you."

He smiled back, enveloping my feet with his warm hands. "Well, that much I can promise you, Mrs. Almost Walker-Bartowski. I'm here … at your service."

A truer statement had never been uttered. Besides all the pre-Christmas festivities, we'd spent the majority of the past ten days sifting through Jill's intel and dealing with all the fallout. The documents in her lockbox—both paper and digital—had proven that Fulcrum was far more entrenched in the intelligence community than anyone could've imagined. On their payroll were bought local, state, and federal politicians; city officials from all over the country; police from almost every municipality; and well-known arms dealers and money launderers to equip and fund their operations. We'd even found enough evidence on Bernie Ominsky—AKA Carnivore—to put him away for life.

Oddly enough—at least according to Jill's intel—Carnivore also had strong ties to Augusto Gaez, the leader of the Gentle Hand. The CATS had been after Gaez and his organization for over a year before we were disbanded. He was the one that got away—the man that I'd accused Zondra of tipping off, based on the hidden transmitter I'd found in the heel of her boot and the fact that the Hand always seemed to be one step ahead of us. So many things looked as if they were interconnected now, and I couldn't imagine how deep we'd discover the corruption went by the time we finally got to the bottom of it all. I had faith that the analysts at Langley—now working in partnership with Chuck—would be able to figure it out.

In the meantime, Bryce and Amy were still missing and, although we didn't have a smoking gun yet, Carina and I were now fairly certain that Amy'd been the mole the entire time and had framed Zondra to deflect attention from herself. With a little cajoling from Chuck, I'd gotten Zondra's contact information from Graham and was trying to drum up the nerve to call her, tell her about our doubts, and eat some serious crow.

I sighed, leaning my head against the arm of the couch. "Much as I'd love to watch a movie with you, I should probably call Zondra and apologize. I really, really don't want to, but …"

"But it's Christmas," Chuck said, squeezing my toes. "Just think of what an amazing gift that would be for both of you—to have your friendship back …"

"God, you are impossible. And _such _a hopeless romantic." I curled my lip in mock irritation.

"_Moi_, Mrs. Almost Bartowski-Walker? I seem to recall that _you _were the one who proposed to _me. _There might've been a magical penny involved … and a profession of eternal love …" Whatever he'd been about to say next failed to materialize when I surged forward and started tickling him. He squirmed, trying—and failing—to escape. "Is this …. part of what they … teach you in spy school?" he said, giggling as he tried to wriggle free. "Death by tickle? Because I'm like twice your size and …"

I surrendered, knowing what was about to happen. The next second, I was on my back and his lips were covering mine. "Gotcha," he said in triumph. We didn't talk again for quite some time.

When his hand wandered under my shirt, though, I stilled it—albeit regretfully. "Believe me, Chuck," I told him, "I'd much rather make out with you than call Zondra and admit what an awful friend I've been. But if we continue down this path, a couple hours will have gone by … and then the next thing you know, it'll be time to order a pizza … or watch a movie or two … and then it'll get late … and I'll come up with yet another excuse not to call her."

I'd never seen a six-foot-four, grown man pout like a little child until right this moment. "I'm sure there are other things you could do to apologize," he said. "Flowers … chocolate … a heartfelt card …"

I shoved at his chest, but it wasn't necessary; he was already moving. "Are you also gonna tell her everything about Fulcrum and the Intersect?" he said, scooching up to sit next to me.

"That's a tough one." We'd discovered that Fulcrum was indeed trying to build their own Intersect computer, with the goal of creating an army of super-soldiers to overthrow the government. They'd recruited top-notch scientists and engineers—though it was evident from the intel that none of the recruits knew exactly what they were working on. Each of them only had access to a small piece of the larger puzzle, with the exception of a man named Dr. Jonas Zarnow. He was assigned to the Omaha project under a Howard Busgang, code-named Perseus, who'd worked closely with Orion in the past. Hopefully Busgang wasn't corrupt, too. He didn't appear to be on Fulcrum's payroll, which was promising. Unfortunately, the intel had also contained a worrisome mention of a group called The Ring, which operated under the auspices of The Elders, an independent governing body—making it seem as if Fulcrum was just one of many players. It was all so damned complicated.

I gazed up at the twinkling lights Chuck had strung along the molding, my eyes blurring with tears. I wasn't used to feeling so emotional—but then again, I'd found the love of my life, gotten engaged, and reconnected with my long-lost mother. I guess I was entitled. "I hate this," I admitted. "All of this … spy shit. I want you to find your father, Chuck—I really do. But I also just want some peace and happiness. I want to spend Christmas with you and our families without worrying about the sting operation that Graham's putting together … or where the hell Bryce Larkin is … or whether Ellie and Devon are in danger. I just want to be normal for a change."

He stroked my hair, pulling me up to sit in his lap. "And you will be. Graham's finished vetting everyone for his … sting thing. God—that sounded terrible." He winced. "You know what I mean. You said it's taken this long because so many federal agencies are involved. He needs to be careful, because there's a real danger of leaks happening if he's not. So that's a good thing. Right?"

Grudgingly, I nodded. Graham had spent the past week mobilizing a joint sting operation with the CIA, NSA, DEA, Homeland Security, and various other agencies. If it worked, it would be a devastating blow to Fulcrum's plans.

"As for Ellie and Devon," he went on, twining a few strands of my hair around his index finger, "they can put up with Carina staying in my room a while longer. She's looking out for them. Casey's got surveillance on Echo Park 24/7. And I have you to protect me. So we're all good."

The irony of John Casey and his team re-setting up the very surveillance that I'd insisted Graham dismantle hadn't escaped me. "Yeah," I muttered, trying to keep my dissatisfaction from showing in my voice. "We're great."

"Hey." He lifted my chin so I'd look at him. "Is this about your mom coming tomorrow? Are … are you afraid she won't like me anymore? Or—do you want some time for just the two of you … you know … on your own? Because if it's too much for me to be here while she's visiting, I can always go back to my apartment and sleep on the couch—"

"What?" I goggled at him. "Why wouldn't my mom like you? How could anyone not like _you_?"

My obvious incredulity made him smile. "It's been known to happen."

"Sure … if you're an idiot and a terrible judge of character." I sat up straight. "When I called my mom to tell her we were getting married, she was freaking thrilled. You know that. She was even more excited to come stay with the two of us and get to know you better. And there's no way I'm exiling you to the couch in your own apartment … since I know you're way too much of a gentleman to even consider displacing Carina's entitled ass. You can stay right here and watch classic Christmas movies with the both of us." A childhood memory of the holidays resurfaced—one of the few good ones I still had. "Maybe she'll even teach us how to make her world-famous _makowiec_," I said, clasping my hands together in anticipation.

He raised an eyebrow. "_Mako_—what?"

"_Makowiec. _It's a Polish holiday dessert … kind of a cross between a yeast roll and a poppy-seed strudel thingy. I haven't had it since I was a little kid." I licked my lips, remembering. "And my mom's is delicious."

"If that's what you want"—he bent at the waist, sweeping out his arm in a grand gesture—"then that is what you shall have, Mrs. Almost Bartowski-Wozniak. I will hunt down the finest poppy seeds in southern California. Consider it done."

"You're such a goofball." I shoved his shoulder, laughing … but the more I thought about it, the more alluring the _makowiec _sounded. I could almost taste the sweetness of the yeast roll and the crunch of the poppy seeds. I could picture thick slabs of it layered on my Polish grandma's white platter with stenciled roses, just as my mother had always served it. God, how had I gone without it all this time?

"Holy crap. Are you … _drooling_?" Chuck widened his eyes.

"Very funny, you ass." _Had _I been? I tried to subtly bring up a hand to check, but Chuck caught it in his. He brought it to his lips and kissed it, trying not to laugh.

"You better watch it," I told him. "Your sister agreed to be my maid of honor, which means I'm going to be spending a lot of time with her—and she's got all the dirt on you, I'm sure. Keep it up, and I'll get her to tell me all of your most embarrassing stories."

"Are you kidding? My whole life is one long embarrassing story." He quirked an eyebrow at me. "You'd have better luck asking Ellie to try to dig up something that isn't humiliating."

I ruffled his curls. "Don't forget, you're marrying me, Chuck Almost Bartowski-Walker. I'll destroy anyone who tries to humiliate you."

His dark eyes filled with the sweetest expression I'd ever seen, and he leaned over, brushing his lips over mine. He tasted like vanilla and caramel, from the Coca Cola he'd been drinking before he climbed up on the ladder, and I fisted my hands in his T-shirt, holding him close. When he pulled back, he whispered, "I'm counting on it." The sweet expression faded, morphing into something far more mischievous. "But what I want to know is … since you're letting Carina plan your bachelorette party … who's gonna protect _you_?"

Ugh—the damn bachelorette party. Just thinking about it made me nauseated. "Zondra," I told him, hoping it was true. "She's always had my back. Let's hope she'll be willing to do it one more time."

I grabbed for my phone—just in time to see the light in Chuck's eyes dim. He tried to turn away so I wouldn't notice, but it was too late. "Hey," I said, winding the fingers of my free hand through his. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing." He gave me a small, sad smile. "Call your friend. I'll be right here."

I shook my head. "No, no. You're not getting off that easy. I know when something's bothering you—and there's no way I'll be able to focus on calling Zondra and saying what I need to say if I'm worrying about you the whole time. So, spill it."

This was dirty pool—I knew the last thing Chuck would ever want to do was cause me pain or anxiety—but it was also the truth. Something was bugging him; that much was obvious. If it had to do with our impending nuptials—if he'd changed his mind or had doubts—I needed to know the truth.

"Is it me?" I ventured when he didn't say anything. "Are you having second thoughts about us getting married?"

He gave me the same incredulous look I'd given him when he'd suggested staying on the couch in his old apartment while my mom visited. "No offense, but … are you nuts? Saying yes to your proposal is the only decision I'm one hundred percent sure I'll never regret."

"Then what is it?" I ducked my head, trying to peer into his face.

"It's not …" He sighed. "You're gonna think it's silly."

"I won't," I said with perfect conviction. "If it's important to you, then it matters to me."

He smiled a bit at that. "It's just … you'll have your mom at the wedding, and seeing you two find each other has been—amazing, is the only word I have for it. I'm so incredibly happy for the two of you. But I'd be lying if I told you it didn't make me a little sad that I won't be able to have either of my parents at my wedding." He scanned my face, looking for any signs that he might have offended me. "Not that I would ever begrudge you a chance at happiness, Sarah—please, don't ever think that. I want you to have everything you've ever wanted. But … I miss my mom and dad, and I guess talking about them so much over the past few weeks has really brought it all back. I worry that my dad's in danger, and I won't be able to find him quickly enough to do anything about it. My sister and Devon have Carina; I've got you; but who's looking out for _him_?"

I was struck speechless.

Self-consciously, Chuck rubbed the palm of his free hand on his jeans. "I told you it was silly."

"Hey! Stop that. It's not silly at all." I shook my head adamantly. "It's … it's a valid concern, Chuck. I won't lie to you. I don't blame you for worrying."

"I …" His voice dropped. "I wonder if maybe he knows what happened to my mom. If I find him … maybe he can tell me. It's been so horrible all these years—just … not knowing."

I wanted to make him promises, to tell him everything would be fine—but I couldn't give him anything but the truth. "I hope for that too, Chuck. More than anything. I hope you find them both."

We were quiet for a moment, breathing in the scent of the balsam candle and holding on to each other's hands. Finally he said, "Thank you for listening. It makes me feel better to talk about it. But now …" He gave me a crooked smile. "It's your turn to put yourself out there." He nodded at my phone, which was still sitting on the table.

I sat back against the couch, feeling my stomach churn. "Thanks so much for reminding me."

"It'll be okay," he said, tracing my palm with his index finger. "Whatever happens, I'll be right here."

Heart pounding, I picked up the phone and dialed.

OoOoOoOoO

The phone rang once … twice … three times. "She's not answering," I said, with a mixture of regret and relief. "Maybe I should just call back—"

"Rizzo secure, but in public."

It was Zondra's voice. I mean, of course it was. It was her phone. But hearing her voice again, even if it wasn't that long since the last time we'd spoken—after what I'd accused her of doing—was paralyzing. I opened my mouth, then shut it again, looking helplessly at Chuck.

He squeezed my hand. "Say something," he mouthed.

I pressed 'speaker' and forced myself to form actual words. "Zondra? It's me—Sarah."

There was a long pause. Then Zondra said, her voice ice-cold, "What do you want? Got a murder to pin on me—or maybe an act of high treason for working with the Ruskies?"

I deserved that. "No—far from it." Swallowing hard, I gripped Chuck's fingers. "Actually, I called … to apologize."

Silence fell once again. Zondra broke it. "I'm sorry—I must have misheard. You're calling to apologize … for what, exactly?"

She wasn't making this easy for me—but then again, I couldn't blame her. I'd put her through hell. "You know what." I did my best to keep any hint of defensiveness out of my voice. "I know you didn't do it, Z. I falsely accused you and I wouldn't listen to you when you begged me to believe you. You were framed … and I think I know who it was."

"I'm listening." Her tone had thawed a degree or two.

I spent the next ten minutes spelling out everything that had happened over the past few weeks: my assignment with Bryce; Orion and meeting the Bartowski clan; Bryce, then Carina's reassignments; Jill's reappearance, the pier operation, and her subsequent revelations; Bryce's disappearance … and, more relevant to our conversation, who had vanished with him. "We think Amy set you up," I concluded. "She's gone to ground with a known traitor—and she won't respond to Graham or anyone else. I trusted her when I should've seen through her bullshit … and because of that, I turned my back on our friendship … and I'm sorry, Z. I'm so, so sorry." Despite my best efforts to hold it together, I burst into tears.

Zondra had never heard me cry before—and I was doing way more than that right now. I was sobbing, all of my frustrations from the past four years seeping out with my tears. "Please forgive me, Zondra. I never meant to hurt you. It was all a horrible misunderstanding and I should've never fallen for it. Amy set you up to take the fall for what she did and I got suckered into believing exactly what she wanted me to. I was wrong and I'm sorry. Please say you'll forgive me—if not now, maybe someday …"

My voice trailed off. I had no idea what else to say. Sniffling, I wiped my eyes.

Chuck let go of me and stood up, disappearing into my bedroom. He was back a few seconds later, pressing some tissues into my hand. Settling down next to me, he put his arm around me and tucked my body against his side. I leaned my head against his shoulder, letting the warmth of his body and his familiar scent calm me.

"Zondra?" I said at last, when my tears had slowed. "Say something."

She drew a deep breath; I could hear it. And then she said, "That bitch."

"Me?"

"No, you idiot. Amy. That fucking bitch. I should've known it was her. Looking back, there were signs, but I just … I never …" She sighed. "I'll make you a deal, Walker. I'll forgive you if you just stop it with all the crying. It's … freaking me out. You've always been tough as nails. Hearing you sound like a blubbering mess—it's making me feel like we've entered the Twilight Zone."

I smiled, even though she couldn't see it. "I'll see your deal and raise you one better. I'll quit crying if you agree to be one of my bridesmaids."

For the fifth time, silence fell. "I'm sorry … what?" Zondra said at last, sounding wary. "You're getting married? To who? And, more importantly … why?"

How could I possibly explain Chuck? I stared at the phone, at a loss for words.

Chuck rescued me. He leaned forward, his arm tightening around my shoulders. "To me," he said, sounding shy. "It's nice to finally meet you, Ms. Rizzo. As for the why … I don't know that I'll ever be able to understand how I got so lucky. But I love my Sarah, and I know she really values your friendship. She's been worried sick about whether you'd be willing to forgive her. It would mean the world to her—and to me—if you were willing to be one of her bridesmaids."

Zondra began to laugh, a low, sultry chuckle that reverberated through my living room. "Oh my God. Walker, you're marrying a fucking Boy Scout."

"What? I was never a Scout," Chuck protested. "My family couldn't afford the fees, plus I wasn't into that whole God and country thing. And … oh. You're joking. I … um … sorry." His face turned bright red.

"Is he blushing, Walker? 'Cause it sounds like he's blushing." There was a teasing edge to Zondra's voice. Though she wasn't a flirt like Carina, she wasn't one to back down from a challenge—and she loved to stir the pot. I'd missed that about her, actually. When she wasn't being a pain in my ass, she made most situations much more fun.

"He might be, just a tad," I admitted, smoothing Chuck's riotous curls.

"Oooh. I can't _wait_ to meet him. How the hell did this happen? It's only been like a month since I saw you last. And I hung out with you on a daily basis for four years and never saw you give any guy a second glance. This one must be something special."

"Oh, he is," I said, giving Chuck an appreciative glance.

"So when's the big day?"

"We haven't set a date yet." Chuck and I hadn't talked about it, but I knew he was hoping that his father would somehow be able to come to our wedding. Until that possibility was officially off the table, we hadn't locked anything down.

"Oh, good. For a minute there I thought he must've knocked you up." She snickered.

"What? No!" The very thought filled me with debilitating terror. I barely knew how to be a daughter; how the hell was I supposed to figure out how to be someone's mom? "We've been engaged for less than two weeks, Zondra. Just—cut me some slack."

She gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. But if you don't know when you're getting married, how's your favorite bridesmaid supposed to help you plan the wedding?"

"Oh my God! So you'll do it?" Tears came to my eyes again.

"Knock it off, Walker. We had a deal, remember? I can hear your damn snotty nose from here. Yes, I'll do it. But I've got to ask … who else is a member of the guilty party?"

"Well, Chuck's sister is my maid of honor—" I began.

"Wait a minute. Chuck—as in, _the_ Chuck Bartowski. The nerd you've been telling me about? Your _asset?" _She didn't wait for me to reply. "Does Graham know?"

"He knows we're … dating. But not the engagement part, no." And I intended to keep it from him as long as possible.

"Wow. Okay. So, dating your asset. Not knocked up. Getting hitched. Anything else I need to know, aside from who else is in the wedding party?" She sounded amused.

"Carina is the only other person I've asked. And she insists on planning the bachelorette party."

"Of course she does." Zondra gave an exaggerated sigh. "You may not know this about me, Walker—as it hasn't been relevant in our working relationship thus far—but I'm one hell of an event planner. It was my first job out of college. If you ever wondered how I got so good at plotting out some of the details of our missions … that's it. Throwing a black-tie shindig for 500 of New York City's richest and most famous gives you a great foundation for mission prep. Let Red get as down and dirty as she wants … but I've got dibs on helping you plan the wedding."

"Um … okay." I had no idea what else to say, and Zondra didn't sound like she'd take no for an answer. Plus, I had no idea what went into planning a wedding. Between Ellie and Z, they'd probably have the event running like a CIA operation, with three contingency plans in place and God help anyone who stood in their way.

"Okay. So." Z was all business now. "When can I meet this mystery man of yours? Graham hasn't assigned me anything since the squad. Called it administrative leave, which basically means I've been benched. Might as well take advantage of it while it lasts."

I looked at Chuck, at a loss—but as always, he took me by surprise. "Um … well … maybe this is a bit presumptuous," he said, sounding hesitant, "but do you have any big Christmas plans? Like, do you spend it with your family?"

"I don't have much family to speak of." There was a rare note of vulnerability in Zondra's voice. "None I'd claim, anyway. So no, no big plans. Why do you ask?"

"Well," he said again, "I know what it's like to be without your family—especially during the holidays. It's just me and my sister … and her boyfriend. And now Sarah too, of course. Her mom will be here … and, um … well, I was thinking that maybe you'd like to join us."

I stared at Chuck, my eyes wide. "Really?" I mouthed, just as Zondra said the same thing—aloud.

"Yes, really." He glanced between me and the phone, looking exasperated. "It's no big deal. The more the merrier, as far as my sister's concerned. We'd invite Carina, too, of course—maybe even Casey. Whaddaya say?"

When Zondra spoke again, it was in the gruff tone she used to disguise that she was truly touched. "Fine, Sarah's-boy-toy. Might as well get a jump on the wedding planning. Text me your address and when you want me there. I'll bring a damn fruitcake." And she hung up.

That was Z … always needing to have the last word.

OoOoOoOoO

"Well, that went better than expected." I gave Chuck a tentative smile, lacing my fingers through his as we strolled across the courtyard to his and Ellie's apartment—not that he spent much time there anymore.

"It didn't go better than _I _expected." He grinned down at me. "I knew she'd forgive you. I mean … who could stay mad at you?"

I elbowed him in the ribs. "Your opinion of me is way too high."

"On the contrary," he said, casting a fond glance at the fountain as we passed it, "I think it's right on point. And when your mom comes tomorrow, I can't wait to hear about all of your adorable childhood stories. I can see it now"—he bracketed the air with his hands, as if framing a movie shot—"_Sam's First Christmas. The Time Toddler Sam Streaked Down the Street Naked. Sam and the Mud—_ow! What did you do that for?" He rubbed the spot where I'd punched him.

"I did _not _streak down the street naked, you perv." I fake-glowered at him. "And if this is one of your secret fantasies, you can put that to rest, because I have no intention of fulfilling it."

"Awww." Chuck pressed a kiss to the top of my head, then let go of my hand so he could unlock the door of his apartment. Carina and I had made a big production out of making sure that everyone knew the importance of maintaining a high level of home security, and I was gratified to see that Ellie and Devon were paying attention. "Yum," he said as the door swung open. "Smells like Ellie's making pot roast."

I stepped in behind him, taking a deep breath. "Mmm. Too bad she burned the onions."

He sniffed the air—then gave me a peculiar look. "I don't smell anything. Who are you, Daredevil?"

Baffled, I knitted my eyebrows. "I mean, yeah, I guess I've been known to take a few risks … but what does that have to do with crispy onions? I'm confused."

Chuck looked like he was stifling laughter. "Never mind. I forgot you were a pop culture virg—oh, hey, Carina." He scrubbed a hand through his hair, doing his best to keep a straight face.

Emerging from the living room, she glanced between the two of us. "Are we over here talking about Blondie's virginity again? Because I was pretty sure that was something you'd taken care of already."

"Oh. My. God." I could feel my face flaming. "No one's doing a post-mortem on my virginity. We were talking about onions."

Her lips twitched. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

"Carina—"

"Or is that some kind of secret code word? 'Honey, I can't wait for you to come home and slice some onions with me. Just don't make me cry this time.'" She smirked at us. "I gotta tell you, as a code word for getting it on, 'onions' bites the big one. Oops." Covering her mouth, she wiggled her eyebrows. "I guess I could've phrased that more delicately."

"Carina!" I shoved her shoulder. "We were honestly discussing food."

"Whatever you say, Walker." Rolling her eyes, she retreated into the kitchen. Chuck and I followed.

"She's impossible," I hissed at him.

"I heard that," she singsonged. "And you wouldn't be the first to say so."

I could feel a smile blooming on my face. "Yeah, well, Zondra thinks so too. And she's gonna have the chance to tell you in person—really soon."

Carina spun around, almost bumping into Ellie, who was pulling a stick of butter out of the refrigerator. "What do you mean?"

My smile widened. "I called her, Carina. It was agonizing—I'm not gonna lie—but I apologized for accusing her of being the mole. I brought her up to date about everything, and then Chuck—he invited her …"

"For Christmas," he said, grabbing a carrot out of the bag on the counter. "God, I'm starving. That's okay, Ellie, isn't it? That I invited her?"

"Of course it is." Ellie slapped his hand. "I need those for dinner, to go with the roast. Stop eating them. And who's Zondra again?"

My heart swelled with love and appreciation for this family—their open hearts and incredible generosity, even toward someone they'd never met. "She's one of our old partners, from when Carina and I worked together not too long ago. Basically there was a massive misunderstanding, and we haven't spoken since Graham disbanded our team." In as few words as I could manage, I explained what had happened. "I was awful to her," I concluded. "Horrible. One of my best friends, and I just … I treated her like …" I sniffed, swallowing hard.

"Walker, are you—are you _crying_?" Carina sounded shocked. "What the hell is going on with you lately? First you fall in love with your asset, even if he's the nicest guy ever to walk the face of the planet, then you _apologize _to Z—which is so far out of character for you, I don't even know what to say—and now you're riding the Boo-Hoo Express. Have you had a personality transplant—or did you attend some kind of woo-woo seminar about getting in touch with your feelings? Whatever it is, I hope to hell it's not contagious." She shoved a napkin into my hand, squeezing my fingers to take the bite out of her words.

"It must be Chuck," I said by means of explanation. "And I'm crying because I'm happy. I mean, I'm not happy I didn't trust Z to tell me the truth—but I'm happy I apologized and she forgave me. I'm happy that you guys will get to meet my mom—and that I have all of you—and that the holidays are finally going to be what they're supposed to be like in the movies, instead of … well, you don't want to know what I used to do on Christmas. I feel like I won the lottery."

Ellie set the butter down on the counter and hugged me. "So do we," she whispered.

I was saved from having to reply by my ringtone. Pulling the phone out of my pocket, I saw my mom's number pop up on the screen. "Hey, Mom," I said, taking a step back from Ellie. "How's it going? We were just talking about you."

"Sarah." She sounded panicked. "Baby, I—" Her voice cut off, and there was a muffled crunching sound, as if someone had grabbed the phone.

"Mom?" She didn't answer, and I felt my anxiety crest. "Mom, are you okay? Mom!"

I could hear her talking, but the sound grew increasingly inaudible, as if whoever had the phone was walking further away from where she stood—or as if she'd been dragged in the opposite direction. And then another voice came through, loud and clear—and all-too-familiar. "Hello, Agent Walker."

"Bryce?" I felt my stomach clench. "What the hell are you doing with my mother? You better not have laid a finger on her, you traitorous son-of-a-bitch—"

"Oh, relax, Agent Walker." His voice was a drawl. "Unlike you, I don't feel the need to inflict physical harm on others, regardless of their affiliations. But I will tell you this. You'll release Jill Roberts into my custody at a time and place of my choosing—or your mother's treatment will cease to be so … convivial."

"Listen here, you bastard…" I began, but he interrupted me.

"Enough!" The word was so loud that I had to fight the urge to flinch. "You should've known that the CIA wasn't the only organization with the technology to tap and trace phones, _Agent_ Walker." I heard him drag in a deep breath. When he spoke again, it was low and measured. "Look … let's get straight to the point, shall we? This isn't a debate or a negotiation. If you ever want to see your mother alive again, you'll do exactly as I say."

I hit the speaker button and forced myself to sound calm—but inside, I was seething. This was why it was so dangerous to care about people … because they could be used against you. "I'm listening."

So was Carina—and everyone else in the kitchen, who had crowded around the phone and were staring at in in horror as Bryce went on, giving what I thought of as the classic Villain Speech, complete with mind-numbing clichés. Normally I would have laughed at him ... but this time, he had my mother in his clutches.

"I might look like a rookie to you, but rest assured, this isn't my first rodeo," he said, sounding disgustingly self-satisfied. "I know it'll take some time for you to secure Jill's release from federal custody—let's say twenty-four hours—but I'm sure you can pull it off now that you're properly … motivated." He chuckled, and I had to fight the urge to growl. "I'll call you back with a time and a destination—but understand this … it'll just be you, Jill, and Chuck at the drop. No one else. We know you have a team guarding the geek and his family. If I get the slightest hint that there's anyone other than the three of you there, our deal's off—and all you'll be getting from Santa this year are larger and larger gift-wrapped pieces of your mother. I'll start with her fingers and end with her head. Merry Christmas, Agent Walker." And, taking a leaf out of Graham's book, he disconnected the call.

I stared at my phone in disbelief, at a loss for words. Around me, everyone was talking at once, but all I picked up were snatches of conversation: "—that unbelievable ass—" "—do you think he meant it—" "—what are we going to do?"

At that last, I snapped out of my haze. "I'll tell you exactly what we're going to do," I said, my voice hard and cold as ice. "We're going to call Graham and bring Casey and his team up to speed with what's going on. Then we're going to get my mother back, in the pristine condition in which I left her three weeks ago. And then I'm personally gonna place Bryce Larkin's head on a spike as a warning to anyone who even_ thinks_ about threatening my family."

I spun on my heel, intent on storming out of the apartment to hunt down Casey and his team, with Chuck right behind me. But when I threw the front door open, someone was standing on the other side—an older man wearing a baseball cap over his frazzled hair. I straightened, my hand going for my gun … but there was no need. Whoever this guy was, he wasn't a threat. In fact, I'd interrupted him in the act of staring nervously at the ground, looking as if he was working up the courage to knock. He glanced up at me, startled—and Chuck gasped.

"Oh my God. Dad?" he said.

* * *

A/N: This is the end of the second arc. Next week, we'll be barreling full speed ahead into arc #3, heading toward our final destination (not as ominous as it sounds, we promise). Stay tuned to discover what Orion's doing on Chuck's doorstep and whether this Christmas will be just as disastrous for Sarah as all the others—or whether everyone will be reunited to sip homemade eggnog and snack on _makowiec _after all.

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	21. Orion's Confession

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 21: Orion's Confession  
**

With a quick scan of the interior, Stephen Bartowski—aka Orion—stepped into Chuck and Ellie's apartment, closing the door behind him and locking it for good measure. After giving the rest of the apartment a cursory glance, he strode into the kitchen at a fever-pitched pace and yanked the curtains shut—then went into the living room to do the same. From room to room he went, giving every window the same treatment. Nobody followed him, demanding to know what he was doing, or tried to help in any way. Instead, we just stared at him in stunned silence. Even Chuck—who we'd all praised for knowing what to do in every situation—seemed at a total loss. He and Ellie stood next to each other, gaping at the whirlwind of activity that was their father, looking like Hansel and Gretel lost in the woods.

I stood by Chuck's side, feeling horribly torn. On the one hand, I wanted nothing more than to go charging out the door, hell-bent on finding a way to rescue my mother from Bryce's clutches. On the other, how could I abandon Chuck in his time of need, when the man he'd wanted so desperately to attend our wedding had resurfaced after all this time—gift-wrapped on Chuck's doorstep, no less? He was going to be my future father-in-law, for Christ's sake. Not to mention, locating Orion _had_ been part of my original mandate … and maybe he knew something that would help us find my mother.

Not Orion. _Stephen._ I made myself think of him that way; he was Chuck's father first and an asset second.

_This_, I reminded myself bitterly, watching Chuck's hands clench into tight fists by his sides, _is why you don't get attached, Walker. Now here you are, triangulated like a freaking slice of pizza._

When Stephen's whirling dervish routine came to a close, he finally came to rest in front of Ellie, Chuck, Devon, Carina, and myself. I looked him over, assessing; he was significantly shorter than Chuck, with unkempt hair, but I could still see the resemblance between the two of them. Unlike Chuck, though, Stephen's features were careworn and haggard, and not just because of the years that separated them. Wherever Stephen Bartowski had been all this time, it was obvious that he'd been living a hard life.

He cleared his throat, at as much of a loss as the rest of us as he shifted from one foot to the other—a nervous tic he shared with his son. I had a thousand questions, but didn't feel like I had the right to speak first.

Stephen settled the issue when he threw his arms around his children, holding them both in a tight embrace. I could see his face over Ellie's shoulder, eyes shut tight, his expression a blend of perfect happiness and genuine grief. Ellie—one of the world's most proficient huggers—stood motionless in his grip. Chuck's hand came up instinctively to pat his father on the back, but that was all he had to offer. The two of them stood like automatons, as if shock had immobilized their limbs.

After a long moment, Stephen let them go, stepping back to study his children's faces. Chuck's mouth opened and closed a few times, but neither of them said a word.

Sighing, Stephen turned to me and Carina. "Agent Walker … I'm sorry to hear about your mother," he said, extending his hand for me to shake. I took it, struggling not to let my surprise show on my face. How in the hell did he know about my mom already? I'd only just fielded the phone call from Bryce. Obviously, Orion's reputation was well-deserved.

Stephen's fingers were cold and clammy—doubtless with nerves. I let go, fighting the urge to wipe my hand on my jeans. "Agent Miller," he said, turning to address Carina.

While they shook, I took a moment to think. He knew who we were as well as our current plight. Well, of course he did; anyone as technologically savvy as he was, who'd been on the run for so long, wouldn't have entered into a situation like this without sussing it out as thoroughly as possible. Which begged the question: What the hell was he doing here?

"Pancakes," Ellie said, finally breaking the shocked silence with an indignant growl.

We all swiveled toward her. I had a sinking feeling I knew what was coming next.

"Pancakes?" Stephen repeated, sounding puzzled. "What—"

Hands on her hips, Ellie cut him off. "Pancakes! You know, the dinner you promised to make … right before you left us both to fend for ourselves?"

Stephen's face fell. "Oh," he said, his voice heavy. "Those pancakes."

"Damn right, those pancakes! Where the hell did you _go_ … _Dad_? Did you slip in a puddle of maple syrup, hit your head, and wind up with amnesia, which you're only now recovering from? Did you get lost on the way to the store? Please tell me you've spent the past ten years living under a bridge with no recollection of your own name or your children's. Because otherwise—you and I_ … _we have nothing to say to each other_."  
_

"I—"

"I was just sixteen!" Her voice shot upward, cracking. Devon put an arm around her shoulder and she shrugged it off, looking furious. "Chuck was only _thirteen_—in _middle school. _Did you not notice that our mother vanished a mere five years before you took off? Did it not occur to you that we would be on our own, with no family to speak of—no one to take us in? Do you have any _idea _what I had to do to keep us under the radar, so they wouldn't stick us both in foster homes—probably separating us? Do you know how hard I had to work? How many nights I cried myself to sleep? How many freaking bowls of ramen we ate because we couldn't afford anything else? Do you have any idea how much food a six-foot-four, seventeen-year-old boy _eats_?" The last emerged in an indignant squeak.

"Eleanor, I'm so sorry—"

"Sorry? You're _sorry? _I don't want your fucking apologies. It's way too late for that. I want to know what the hell happened to you!"

Their father looked stricken. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Chuck put a hand on his sister's arm. "I think he's been trying to tell us, Ellie."

"Trying to tell us? He hasn't said a word!"

"Well…" Chuck's mouth twitched, despite the gravity of the situation. "Quite possibly, that's because you haven't given him the chance."

God, Chuck was such a saint. Then I recalled what he'd told me a few days ago, when I'd asked him what he'd say if he could see his mom and dad again: _I think I'd want to listen. I'd want to know why they left … and that no matter what, I forgave them. Good people don't walk out on the ones they love without a solid reason.  
_

Ellie folded her arms across her chest, looking mutinous. "Well, then," she said to her father, "go ahead. You've got the floor. We're all listening."

She looked about as approachable as the guards in front of Buckingham Palace, and Stephen stared at her, nonplussed. It was a standoff. With each passing second, Ellie looked increasingly irritated. Just when I was afraid that she was going to throw him out with the trash if he didn't start speaking, Devon broke the stalemate.

"Hey, uh, so you must be Ellie's dad. Obviously. And, um, it's awesome that you're here. I'm Devon, her boyfriend. This is our apartment. Well, ours and the Chuckster's." He motioned in Chuck's direction. "Can I get you something? Water? A beer? A do-over?"

"Devon." Ellie sounded exasperated.

"What? Come on, babe. I know you're mad at him, and you have every right to be. But he's your _dad, _hon_. _How many times have you told me you'd give anything to see either of your parents again—that it kills you to not know what happened to them? Well, now's your chance." Devon's voice was low, soothing … the way I imagined a lion tamer would sound if their charge escaped its enclosure. Not condescending—never that—but acknowledging that though the creature in front of him was dangerous, it would still regret its choices if it rent its tamer limb from limb … if only because it had sacrificed its food supply.

Now that I thought about it, Ellie was very much like a lion—regal, fierce, and defending her territory. Which, in this case, was Chuck, her cub … and her own broken heart.

Ellie looked down her nose at Devon—as much as she could, given their disparity in height—and let out an annoyed huff. Then she unfolded her arms and leveled her father with a glare. "Fine, Dad. Let's hear it. Where've you been for the past ten years?"

He shifted his weight, reminding me … again … of the way his son behaved under pressure. The night Chuck had shown up at my door—the second time we'd kissed—he'd done the exact same thing. "Could we sit down? It's a bit of a long story."

"I guess." Turning on her heel, she led the way to the couch. Devon sat, tugging her onto the cushion next to him. Chuck flanked her other side. The only available remaining seat was the armchair. Carina, Stephen, and I all eyed it; after a moment, he gestured for one of us to sit. I inclined my head toward Carina, giving her the chair and squeezing in next to Chuck for moral support.

Stephen came to stand in front of the couch, and Ellie eyed him with disdain. "I thought you wanted for us to sit down and discuss this. Why are you still standing? Planning your escape route in case things get too dicey?"

"I meant for _you _to sit down." His lips twitched. "So that maybe you'd relax a little and be less likely to lunge at me. God, you remind me so much of your mother, Eleanor."

"I'm not sure whether or not to take that as a compliment." She frowned at him. "But here we are. Listening. So speak."

"All right. Um. Here goes." He laced his hands behind his back, pacing as he spoke. "For you to really understand what happened, I have to start with how I met your mom. I was a professor at UCLA—you know that much—and she was a teacher's assistant. She was beautiful, feisty, brilliant … needless to say, I fell for her, hard. And she did the same, I guess. I could hardly believe my luck. But then, after a few months, I found out…"

His voice trailed off, and he glanced from Chuck to me and then back again. His eyes narrowed, as if he was putting two and two together, realizing that Chuck and I were more to each other than agent and asset. His lips twitched again, his expression somewhere between disgust and dismay.

Chuck was well beyond noticing such things. "You found out what?" he asked, a tinge of impatience in his voice.

"Um." His stammering, too, reminded me so much of Chuck; I had to force myself to remember that finding this man endearing, in any way, didn't serve my interests—or the younger Bartowskis'—until we knew more about what was going on. "I found out … that she wasn't quite what she seemed. She wasn't really a TA—she'd been assigned to me by the CIA to monitor my research and protect me, should the necessity arise. Not that I had any idea that I needed protecting at the time…"

Chuck shot to his feet, staring at his father. "Are you saying that our mother—that Mom—was a _spy_?"

"Well … in a word … yes."

"Oh, come on." Ellie rolled her eyes. "Spies don't bake cookies with M&Ms in them … or sew dresses for Barbie dolls … or staff PTA rummage sales …"

"I can't say what spies do, plural." Stephen looked wistful. "But your mother certainly did all those things … and more. She was always amazing at whatever she put her mind to—a true marvel. I've missed her each and every day she's been gone."

Looking floored, Chuck sank back down onto the couch cushions. "She was your handler, wasn't she?" he asked, stealing a glance at me out of the corner of his eye. "And she fell for you … wow. I can't … I don't even know what to say."

Stephen nodded. "Of course, when I found out, I was shocked, too. Appalled. Angry at her for lying to me the whole time we'd known each other. Scared about what the ramifications for our future might be. But that didn't stop me from forgiving her … obviously." He gestured at Chuck and Ellie. "I could never stay mad at your mother for very long, no matter what had happened. We were in love. The CIA didn't like it, but in the end, they turned a blind eye to our relationship because of how important they thought my work might be someday."

From where she sat in the armchair, Carina snorted. "Whoa. Talk about the apple not falling far from the tree."

I glared at her. This wasn't about me and Chuck—although I had to admit that the similarities were more than a little unsettling.

Stephen's eyebrows arched, but he decided not to pursue it. "After a while, we got married and moved into the house in Encino where you two grew up. The CIA started funding my work, and so I quit teaching and started working primarily from home. I didn't like being under their thumb or beholden to a government agency, but I had to admit, it was pretty irresistible to have them underwrite my research. I was flattered, and so ensconced in what I was discovering that I didn't stop to think about the moral implications. Mary tried to warn me, but I wouldn't listen. I was ambitious—and young—and foolish."

"And then?" Ellie said, matching his arched eyebrow with one of her own.

"Then," he said, starting to pace again, "I began collaborating with a few notable scientists: Jonas Zarnow, who specialized in subliminal imagery; Howard Busgang, a computer hardware specialist; and Hartley Winterbottom, an ex-MI6 field agent with a background in neurology. They were at the top of their respective fields and were also working with the CIA. Hartley became a close friend, even though I always thought he might've had a thing for Mary … but that's a story for another time."

Ellie made a disgusted sound. "What does that have to do with anything? Unless, of course, she ran away with him … and that's why she took off without a word …"

Their father looked appalled. "What? No! Mary would've never done anything like that. We loved each other."

"Then why did she leave?" Chuck's voice cracked. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, as if to stop himself from saying anything else.

"I'm getting to that, son. Not long after you were born, we developed the basic working prototype of a computer that the CIA would later dub the Intersect. It was just the framework—far too soon to test it out on a live subject. Think of it as the kernel of an operating system—a core program which acted as the 'boss' for the whole computer. I called the hardware component the cypher. At the time, it was my crowning professional achievement. Little did I know that it would be my undoing—and the undoing of my family." His voice thickened, and he cleared his throat.

"The CIA agreed with my assessment, but for very different reasons. I'd always thought of the Intersect as a learning tool, something that would empower the human brain to live up to its true potential. The CIA and the other intelligence agencies that were interested in my work thought of it far differently—as a potential weapon. But I understood none of that at the time." He sighed. "Your mother—she was wiser than I was when it came to the government. She knew how these agencies thought, and she begged me to slow down, to consider the implications if something should go wrong. But I was proud, and ambitious, and I wouldn't heed her warnings. I told her she was overreacting and that I had everything under control. That remains the greatest mistake of my life."

I could see he was telling the truth. His shoulders slumped, and his head fell forward, as if he was bearing an enormous weight.

My eyes met Carina's, and she nodded in confirmation. We needed to hear this. But God, it was everything I could do to keep my focus. It tore at me to know my mother was with Bryce right now, and there was nothing I could do to help her.

"As time went on," Stephen said, "the government put more and more pressure on us to show them what kind of progress we'd made. They'd invested a great deal of money in our work, you see, and they wanted to take a look at their ROI." His tone was bitter. "They wanted to test the project on a human as soon as possible. I was hesitant, but Hartley and Zarnow both agreed. Hartley himself volunteered to be the guinea pig."

He bit his lip, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. "I wasn't too crazy about this idea—I didn't think we were ready—but Mary was even more adamantly against it. She thought we were nuts to try the Intersect out on each other. The machine was in my office. If something went wrong, she said, how could we live with the fact that we'd harmed one of our friends—and in our family's home, no less?"

"Your office," Chuck said. For reasons I didn't understand, his face had gone ghostly white. "So that's why it was always locked … because you kept the Intersect in there?"

His father nodded, looking even more ashamed when he met Chuck's eyes. "Yes," he said, sounding tired. "That's why."

Their exchange made me feel uneasy, like I'd just witnessed something extremely important to the larger picture. I filed it away for now. It wasn't germane to our current situation, so I'd follow up on it later. With an effort, I refocused on the here and now, for Chuck and Ellie's sake.

"Are you crazy?" Ellie's eyebrows crested. "Keeping something like that in a house with two kids? Why not just lock a deadly virus in your filing cabinet and be done with it?"

"Of course, you're right, Eleanor. It wasn't the best idea I've ever had, I'll grant you that." Again, Stephen's eyes once again rested on Chuck for a long, appraising moment, setting off even more alarm bells in my head. "At any rate," he continued, "Mary finally gave in—and I did too. We really didn't have a choice. The government paid our salaries, after all. Without them, there would be no Intersect and no further funding of my research. And since they'd underwritten everything up to that point, they essentially owned the intellectual rights to all of my work. So … we ran our tests. They were simplistic at first, just little things like uploading a few passages from a book, or directions to find a hidden object in the house—small, mundane functions."

A hint of a smile lifted his lips. "It worked perfectly … but not permanently. The information degraded within a few hours, leaving just a ghost of the information from the upload behind. Still, it was more than anyone had ever accomplished before—so, undeterred and egotistical, we pressed on. And then Hartley had what he thought was a game-changing idea."

Stephen ground to a halt, looking more uncomfortable than ever. Leaning forward, Ellie said, "But you didn't agree?"

"No." He shook his head vehemently. "Hartley wanted to implant what he called 'cover' personalities in an individual. He said that since the information degraded, the personality would do the same over time … we just had to figure out how to make it last a little longer. I thought it was a horrible idea—who knew what something like that could do to the human psyche?—but Hartley was the neurologist on the team, and he insisted it would be safe. As for the CIA, they latched onto the idea with both hands. After all, what better tool could you find for infiltrating enemy circles than a person who actually _believed_ they were on the opposing side … and had all the knowledge and linguistic capabilities to back it up?"

Ellie looked horrified. "But that—it's a violation of the Hippocratic Oath. _First, do no harm. _How could you experiment on a person like that, without knowing the potential consequences?"

"I didn't want to. In fact, at first, I refused to be a part of it … but the government insisted. Even though the Cold War was officially over, it was still ongoing on a clandestine level, and they saw this as the ultimate weapon. They said if I didn't agree, they'd pull our funding. It broke my heart to think about all my work going down the drain—but this time, I held my ground. Mary had been right all along … I hadn't really understood the depths to which these people were willing to stoop. I said I wouldn't do it. My morals and my family were more important than any research, no matter how much time I'd devoted to it or how exciting its potential."

"Okay." I could tell how hard Chuck was fighting to stay calm. "You said no. And they said…"

I could imagine what they'd said. It wasn't that hard; I'd been working for the CIA long enough to know what they did when they refused to take no for an answer.

"They started threatening my family—threatening _you_," Stephen said, confirming my suspicions. "They said they'd reassign Mary to long-term dangerous missions in the farthest reaches of the globe. She said fine; she'd quit—and they made it very clear that that wasn't an option. They even threatened to take you kids away from us if we didn't go along with it."

The corners of his lips pulled down, making him look older than before—and very, very tired. "Mary promised that she could keep us all safe, that she was the CIA's best—that she was called the Frost Queen for a reason—but I wasn't willing to take that risk. So I relented. I programmed the cypher as the government requested, creating the personality of a Russian arms dealer and smuggler named Alexei Volkoff. His mission was to infiltrate Russia's network, to find out what their plans were for the U.S."

My mouth fell open—and across the room, I saw Carina's do the same. The Frost Queen was infamous within Langley's halls. Not to mention, Volkoff was one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, and one of the government's worst enemies. He was considered untouchable. For the first time, I spoke up. "Are you telling us that Alexei Volkoff isn't a real person—that you created his personality at the behest of the CIA?"

"Oh, he's a real person, all right. Real enough, anyway." Stephen shrugged. "Hartley volunteered, once again, to be the subject of our experiment. I guess," he said, inclining his head toward Ellie, "that that was his way of feeling as if he hadn't violated his oath. If he was the guinea pig, then whatever consequences ensued would be his and his alone. But what he hadn't bargained for—what none of us had—was that the experiment would be a little too successful."

"What do you mean?" Carina said. She'd scooted to the edge of her armchair, her expression intent.

"As soon as the upload completed, all hell broke loose. You see, Hartley was sure his mind would be able to accommodate both personalities at once—using the real Winterbottom persona to control Volkoff's fake one. Unfortunately, that didn't turn out to be the case. Shortly after he woke, he snapped and became exactly the man he was programmed to be—cold, self-destructive, obsessed with violence, suffering from narcissistic rage and delusions of grandeur—and Hartley Winterbottom ceased to exist." Stephen's eyes were glossy, filled with unshed tears. "If Mary hadn't been there, he probably would have killed everyone in the house, including you two kids. She nearly killed him, and he ran. Mary was so worried about keeping us all safe from a madman, she didn't even think about chasing him." He shuddered. "It was awful. Just like your mother predicted … I destroyed the life of one of our closest friends."

Silence fell over the living room. I don't think any of us knew what to say.

"You kids might remember the next year," he said at last. "Or maybe not. I actually hope you don't. Hartley's transformation gutted me. I distanced myself from all of you, consumed with my grief. In a way, our experiment had succeeded beyond our wildest dreams—but I felt like it was a complete failure, no matter how I tried to spin it. One of my closest friends was gone. He might as well have been dead. And I knew it was all my fault." He swallowed hard. "Mary tried to pull me out of my funk, but it was no use. I knew there was no fixing what I'd done. Shortly thereafter, the CIA caught wind of Alexei Volkoff's growing organization, which was now deeply entrenched in Putin's web of protection. He'd done exactly what he was programmed to do—except without the knowledge that it was all an act. And unless we could get him back and somehow deprogram him, he'd keep doing it forever. His aspirations had outgrown his programming, and he'd become a terrible liability."

"Your wife went after him, didn't he," I said. It wasn't a question.

Chuck and Ellie swiveled to face me, identical looks of shock on their faces. I shrugged. It was what I would have done in her shoes.

Stephen nodded. "That was when Mary left. She wanted to fix her family—to fix _me._ She agreed to go on one last mission to bring back Hartley Winterbottom—to have the Intersect removed, if such a thing was possible, or if it wasn't, to end his reign before it was too late. The CIA agreed; instead of being a jewel in their crown, the Intersect was a stain on their record and a thorn in their sides. So she went—but she never came back."

"So, let me see if I have this straight." Ellie's eyebrows drew down, and she sat forward, away from Devon. "Mom left because she was a CIA agent, on a mission to retrieve a neurologist-slash-deep cover operative, who'd gone rogue because of some kind of super-computer-induced personality that you'd somehow jammed inside his head—creating … in essence … digital multiple personality disorder?"

"That's about the size of it, yes."

"That's insane." She stood up herself, pacing to the curtain-shrouded window, then back again. "So where is she, then? Did this Alexei—Hartley—whatever his name is … did this person kill her?" She stopped in front of her father, bracing herself for his response.

"No," Stephen said immediately. "But I didn't know that at first. I searched for her for five years, pouring all of my effort into that and into trying to figure out what had gone wrong with the Intersect. I'm afraid I wasn't a very present father for you during that time. I did the best I could. The night I went to get pancake mix, the CIA's agent-in-charge for the L.A. office intercepted me in the grocery store's parking lot. He told me that your mother was alive. She'd made contact through their secure network, warning them about Volkoff's plans to overthrow the US government. She was his prisoner. He'd captured her only a few weeks after she left."

I hadn't thought it was possible for Chuck or Ellie to look more shocked than they had before. I'd been wrong.

Stephen went on, the words tumbling out as if they'd been dammed up for years—which, I supposed, they had. "This was the first chance she'd had to reach out to the CIA, and she insisted that someone put her family under protective custody. Volkoff might not have remembered who he used to be—but he remembered _me_, all right. She said he was obsessed with finding me and forcing me to build him his own Intersect. He'd stop at nothing to acquire me, including using you kids against us. I knew that my only choice was to leave. It was the only way to protect you. The faster I could make that happen—and the less you knew—the better."

Chuck's eyes were as round as dinner plates. I knew that whatever he'd imagined had happened to his parents, this wasn't even in the ballpark. "What did you think would happen to us if you were gone?" he said. "If Volkoff or someone who worked for him came for us and you weren't there, how were we supposed to defend ourselves?"

Stephen looked down, guilt clear in his posture. "I had to believe that that wouldn't happen. I started to leave digital signatures as to my whereabouts, leading away from you two. Without me there, you weren't of any value to him. I was the one he wanted. You knew nothing—and I wanted to keep it that way. Better that you think we just disappeared—both of us—than to know the truth."

"So you'd rather us believe that you deserted us than know you were part of a government conspiracy that went horribly wrong?" Ellie gave a bitter laugh. "I can see how that might be a bit of a Hobson's choice. Let me ask again—where have you been all this time? Reno? Tahiti? The moon?"

"I've been in Russia." He glanced between his two children, his expression guileless. "I went straight there after I talked to the agent in that parking lot, and I've been there ever since. When I arrived, I found a way to get word to your mother through Volkoff's own computer network. We've been in sporadic communication ever since, trying desperately to bring him down and free Mary from his clutches." His mouth pursed in disgust. "She's not in any immediate danger. Volkoff's infatuated with her and wants her for his own—just like he did when he was Hartley. She's played that part, keeping him at arm's length while accommodating his perverse need to have her near him. Over time, she's gained his trust to some degree, but he still keeps tabs on her every move."

"Dude," Devon said, drawing out the word. "That's some seriously screwed-up shit."

"You can say that again." Stephen knelt, taking Ellie's hand. I was afraid she might yank it away, but to my surprise, she allowed him to thread his fingers through hers. "Eleanor, I've watched over you and Chuck ever since I left. I knew it was too dangerous for me to reach out to you, since Volkoff had his eye on you too, hoping I'd circle back and he'd be able to snag me that way. And, of course, I've used my alter ego—Orion, the master hacker who's managed to elude both the government and the Russians for a decade—to help throw Volkoff off my scent. Only when Chuck started searching for me did I know my time had run out. I had no choice but to step out of the shadows."

"Oh, God! You're here because of me?" Chuck sounded torn. "I wanted more than anything than to see you and Mom again. But I didn't mean to flush you out, like a duck in the middle of the hunt. Now that I know what's been really going on all these years … the last thing I'd want was to put you in even more danger."

Ellie rounded on him, pulling her hand from Stephen's. "Chuck, have you been listening to anything he's said? All of this is his fault. Mom warned him that something like this could happen, but he refused to listen. This whole mess we're in—losing both our parents, being under the scrutiny of the CIA—it's because of him. You could have died the other day because of what he did!"

When Chuck spoke, his voice was calm. "I've been listening, Ellie. And the conclusion I've come to is this—we can't change our parents' choices. Did Dad make the best decisions? Absolutely not. Was he overly focused on his own achievements at the expense of his good judgment? For sure. But most people get to make crappy decisions and be a little selfish, and it doesn't wind up having repercussions on an international scale. We've always said how badly we wanted Mom and Dad back—well, our father's sitting right in front of us. Are we gonna turn our back on him because he didn't show up with an explanation that put a smile on our faces?"

She stared at him. "I—"

"Just hear me out, Ellie. The thing is, I can't think of a single explanation Dad could've given us that would've made his disappearance okay. If he'd said he run off with another woman, or had a midlife crisis, or just got sick of being a father … would that really have been any better? We still would've grown up without a dad. At least this way, we know he spent the last ten years trying to make things right by rescuing the woman he loves—our mom."

Tears began to well up in Ellie's eyes as she reached out to squeeze his hand. "Why do you always have to be so noble?"

"Aw." He put an awkward arm around her. "Admit it. You love me for it. Keeps you in line."

Together, the Bartowski siblings turned to look at their father. He looked back at them, his face still, waiting. And finally Ellie said, "All right. Because my little brother is obviously a better person than I am, you're welcome to stay … for now. I need time to digest all of this—to think about what you've told us—but for the moment, would you settle for a cup of coffee and some chocolate chip cookies? It's Mom's recipe. I spent all the years you were away trying to get it right."

"I would love some, Eleanor," Stephen said, the first real smile appearing on his face. "But first, I need to tell you all something else. The entities you know as Fulcrum and the Ring are just covert arms of Volkoff Industries. They get most of their funding through hidden shell corporations. I know who Fulcrum's leader is, as well as the Five Ring Elders—and the nature of their short- and long-term plans."

He pulled up his sleeve, revealing some kind of wrist-worn computer unlike anything I'd ever seen. Then his gaze found me, settling on my face. "I don't much like the CIA, Agent Walker—as I'm sure you can understand. But right now, I'm willing to play ball and help you save your mother. Go ahead and call Director Graham. He'll want to hear what I have to say."

* * *

A/N: This is the start of the third and final arc of our story. No huge surprises in this chapter—but trust us, some are just around the corner. We had fun describing Orion's revelations from Sarah's perspective. Next up: A rescue, a revelation, and a reunion.

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


	22. Rock, Meet Hard Place

It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

* * *

**Chapter 22:** **Rock, Meet Hard Place  
**

All I wanted to do was reach for the nearest phone, dial Graham's number, and have Stephen spill the beans, in the hopes that his intel and extensive expertise would help save my mother's life. But instinct as well as years of experience with the Company stayed my hand.

I didn't trust Graham's intentions, no matter what he'd promised me. He had his own agenda that I'd be foolish to dismiss. Wouldn't it be more advantageous for us to hear Stephen's confession first, so we could pick and choose the information we shared with the director of the CIA? The moment I told Graham that Orion was sitting right in front of me, storytime would be over. Graham could order me, Carina, and even Casey to take Chuck's father into custody. By the time I got to hear what Stephen had to say—if it didn't become so highly classified that half of it never saw the light of day—my mom might be lost. The thought of my gentle mother suffering at Bryce Larkin's hand made me want to break something—most notably, his face, followed, in short order, by the rest of him.

_Breathe_, I told myself. _Focus. Remember what matters.  
_

I tried to picture something centering—a beach, a babbling brook, all that crap people told you to focus on while trying to achieve a state of Zen. But when I thought of what grounded me and calmed my racing heart, all that came to mind was Chuck's smile.

I wasn't the only one who might lose a parent here. If we screwed up, Stephen might disappear—or be taken from Chuck and Ellie—yet again. And if Fulcrum got hold of him … wherever he went, there was no chance he'd come back.

I turned to Carina, who was already on her feet, her expression grim. "Do me a favor, Red—go and round up Casey. I'd just _love _to hear how Stephen here managed to slip through his safety net undetected. No offense, Mr. Bartowski, but you don't look like a typical covert operative." I waved a hand in Stephen's direction, indicating his disheveled look, lack of grace, and inadequate training.

"None taken." His lips quirked. "And I have my ways."

Carina was already out the door. "Be right back," she said, leveling her gaze on me. "Nobody do anything stupid while I'm gone."

By 'nobody,' it was pretty clear she meant _me. _I couldn't even get angry at her for saying it—the urge to rush out of here, staging a fly-by-night rescue mission, vibrated in every cell of my being.

We stood in awkward silence for a few minutes until the front door banged open and Carina strode through, Casey right behind her. His eyes widened when he saw Stephen, but he didn't say a word.

"Lieutenant Colonel John Casey," Stephen said, looking him over. "As impressive in person as you are through the lens of a camera. Sorry to have foiled your defenses. Don't take it personally."

Casey locked the front door and took Stephen in. "Later, I'd like to know exactly how you managed to get around our safeguards," he said, hand resting on his sidearm. "If you did, then others can too—so by 'later,' I mean, in the very near future. But now, let's address the business at hand."

I couldn't contain myself any longer. "Yes, by all means. Stephen—do you know where my mother is?"

His eyes met mine, then slid away. "I'd rather discuss this after you make contact with Graham. Then, I promise, you'll know everything I do."

The worry and fear I felt for my mother coalesced, bubbling over into anger. "Tell me _now. _My mother won't be Graham's first concern—but I assure you, she's mine. She's more important than the job, more important than any mission. There will be other missions. I only have one mother. So help me God, if you don't tell me what you know—"

I clamped my lips shut, desperate not to say something I'd regret later. This man was going to be my father-in-law—if we all lived long enough to make that happen. Threatening his life seemed like a less-than-ideal way to launch what was likely to be a lifelong relationship.

Chuck's warm hand settled between my shoulder blades, supporting me. "Dad," he said, his voice firmer than I'd ever heard it, "stop wasting time we don't have. This isn't the time to play games. Sarah's mom's life is in danger. Tell her what she wants to know."

Tears pricked my eyes. I wasn't used to someone having my back like this in any setting other than a professional one. The fact that Chuck was willing to stand up to his dad for me—to risk compromising their reunion, even though he'd longed for a decade to have his father back in his life—meant more than I could say.

Ellie cleared her throat. "If what you've told us is true, Dad, you more than anyone should understand what it means for someone's mother to be kidnapped by the enemy. What the hell is wrong with you? How can you be standing on ceremony like this, using what you know about Sarah's mother as … as leverage? Sarah means a lot to Chuck—hell, she means a lot to me. Don't make me regret giving you a second chance."

The tears stung harder. I looked away, trying to hide them—but I didn't succeed in concealing them from Chuck. His big hand moved in circles on my back, his touch soothing. It chased the tears away, so that when I looked back at Stephen, my gaze was steady and uncompromised.

Stephen's eyes narrowed, taking in the two of us—and the affection clear in Chuck's touch. "Charles," he said, "what do you hope can come out of a relationship with Agent Walker? You know she can't be trusted as long as she's beholden to the CIA."

My heart plummeted. It was stupid, but I'd so wanted Chuck's father to like me, the way my mother had adored Chuck. I couldn't blame him for feeling suspicious … but his particular objection played right into the doubts I'd had about dating Chuck, and the reasons he shouldn't trust me. Hell, sometimes I didn't trust _myself.  
_

Ellie must have seen the way my face fell, because she put her hands on her hips. "You don't know what you're talking about. What about M—"

"Mary was different." He cut her off before she could finish her sentence. "Early on in our relationship, she decided to put her family in front of the government's wants and needs. Can Agent Walker here say the same?"

I wanted to pin him to the wall and tell him exactly what I thought of his assessment of my character—but somehow, I managed to restrain myself. _Father-in-law, father-in-law, father-in-law, _I repeated in my head, like a mantra. I drew a deep breath, then let it out. When I spoke, my voice was calm.

"I know how this looks, Mr. Bartowski. And I understand your concerns. But for one thing—you might recall that we got started down this road because I demanded to know what you knew about my mother's whereabouts. I'm still standing here because I think you might have vital information I need to rescue her … but make no mistake, if it came down to choosing between saving my mother and doing my duty as a CIA agent, my mother would come out on top every time."

I stepped closer to him, away from the safety of Chuck's touch. "Not too long ago, you would've been absolutely correct in your assessment. I was a true believer, one of Director Graham's protégés. But meeting Chuck changed all that. He is a gift I never dreamed I could want or need … and every day, I've vowed to myself to show him that he's a gift that I deserve. He makes me the best person I could ever hope to be and I want to spend, and learn, and love, the rest of my life with him."

Behind me, I heard Chuck's shocked intake of breath. But before he could say anything, Stephen said, "That's a pretty little speech, Agent Walker. But talk is cheap. How do we know that we can trust you?"

Chuck stepped up next to me, taking my hand in his. His fingers twined through mine, warm and comforting. When he spoke, his voice was steel. "The crucial mistake you're making here, Dad, is assuming that you, Ellie, and I are the 'we' and Sarah is on the outside. As far as I'm concerned, Sarah, Ellie, and I—well, and Devon—are at the center of my inner circle. You, on the other hand, are on the outside looking in." His voice didn't rise—I'd never heard Chuck yell—but I could hear the anger in it, all the same. "You want to be a part of our lives again—a part of _my _life? Then you don't have to have any reason to trust Sarah other than the fact that _I_ do … unconditionally. I trust her with every fiber of my being, so much so that she'll soon be my wife." His voice cracked on the last syllable. "You can either choose to be on the outside of what little family I have left … or you can make the decision to accept Sarah for the incredible person that she is. It's up to you."

Silence fell—and with it, so did my tears. I couldn't hold them back this time—and when I glanced over at Ellie, I saw that she couldn't, either. She was wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and I heard her sniff a couple of times.

Life with my father and the CIA had taught me that crying made me weak. But Ellie's voice was strong and taut as a steel cable when she turned to Stephen and said, "You heard my little brother, _Dad. _You've got to choose, once and for all. Your family, or yourself. There's a bright line here, and you're about to decide which side of it you're on."

Stephen's eyes darted between his daughter and his son. Then his shoulders slumped in defeat. "That's fair. I may not like it, but … I've been gone from your lives for ten years. I've got no right to tell you what to do now, or to pass judgment on your choices. Sarah, I owe you an apology. If Chuck chose you … then that's good enough for me."

I opened my mouth, about to tell him that I accepted his apology—if only to keep the peace—when Casey grunted. "If the soap opera's over, can we go ahead and call Graham? Save the family drama for later. I've got a job to do."

"Of course." The remorse faded from Stephen's face, replaced with an all-business expression. He held up the arm with the wrist computer. "I know where Bryce Larkin—and by extension, your mother—is, because I've been continuously tracking him and a few dozen others within Fulcrum, the Ring and Volkoff Industries … utilizing almost every satellite in the sky, in concert with any traffic and surveillance cameras, CCTV, et cetera that the targets come anywhere near."

Chuck's jaw dropped. "But … how? How did you know where to start?"

His father shrugged. "I've been hacking into every intelligence agency there is—not only within the United States but around the world. If you need to know the truth"—his gaze fell to the floor—"I've got the latest version of the Intersect running in my head. This watch," he said, pointing to his other wrist, "is the only thing stopping all of that intel from frying my brain."

We all stared at him in disbelief. Finally Chuck said, his voice trembling, "Are … are you saying you … hacked the planet?"

Before Stephen could reply, Ellie stepped in. Unlike Chuck, she had no compunction about raising her voice. "Don't answer that. A better question is … are you fucking _crazy_?"

"I—"

"No, don't speak. That was a rhetorical question. You've said quite enough already. Basically, you've done exactly the same thing to yourself that turned one of your friends into a raging psychopath who _stole our mother." _Her face turned a deep red, and she ran one hand through her hair, mussing it so that the strands stood on end, as if she'd been electrocuted. "So what if you didn't compartmentalize your personality? You … you uploaded an untested supercomputer into your brain! And then you've been running all over the planet, tracking mobsters and insurgents and criminals … and … and …" She folded her arms across her chest. "I have no words. So let me answer my own question for you. You're fucking nuts!"

To his credit, Stephen looked unfazed by her outburst. "I prefer to think of it as adaptable, Eleanor. I did what had to be done."

Ellie's only response was an incoherent squeak.

"And," he continued, "as you can see, I'm fine. I've made the discovery that I'm one of a handful of people on the planet that can handle the upload without serious adverse effects."

His gaze strayed to Chuck, and I felt the same uneasiness as I had when Chuck had asked him whether he'd kept the Intersect in his office … and Stephen had looked guilty. Something was going on here, and I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

I cleared my throat. "Before you call Graham, I want to hear what you have to say. Then we can report in to him … and start to formulate a plan."

A fierce smile spread across Stephen's face. "Don't worry about planning what we need to do next, Agent Walker. Luckily for you, I already have."

OoOoOoOoO

I offered to call Graham and then hand the phone to Stephen, but he just smiled, giving me a one-shouldered shrug. "There's no need for that," he said, tapping his wrist computer.

I sighed. I should've known that a man who'd hacked the planet, as Chuck put it, would have no problem obtaining the director of the CIA's direct number. "Understood."

Whatever other functions the gadget performed, it doubled as a communications device. Stephen touched a couple of buttons; we heard a phone ringing on the other end, and then Graham's clipped voice: "Hello?"

"Hey there, Art," Stephen said, his tone nonchalant. "It's been a long time."

In the moments before Graham responded, I remembered what Stephen had said—how the L.A. Agent in Charge had met him in the parking lot the night he'd gone out to buy pancake mix. I hadn't given the comment much thought … but hearing the familiar way Stephen addressed Graham, I had a sudden realization.

Graham had been the AIC in the lot that night. He and Stephen knew each other, had known each other for years. All this time, long before Chuck and I had ever met, his father and my father figure had been connected.

Which, in turn, meant that Graham had been the one who sent Stephen into hiding. In effect, he'd been the one to trigger Orion's creation.

For Graham, this was personal. And I was so, so screwed.

"Stephen Bartowski," the CIA's director said, his surprise—if there was any—concealed under a familiar emotionless veneer. "Well, well, well. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Stephen's lip curled. "Interesting turn of phrase."

Before things could escalate, I intervened. "Sir, it's Agent Walker. I'm sitting here with Agent Miller, Agent Casey, the Bartowskis, and, of course, Orion. Ex-Agent Larkin has informed me that he's kidnapped my mother. He's refusing to release her unless I deliver Jill Roberts into his custody—and he's only given me twenty-four hours to close the deal. Mr. Bartowski says he's able to locate Bryce Larkin, and by extension, my mom. He's shared his sources with me and I believe they're valid. Permission to work with him in order to bring my mother home."

Asking for Graham's permission was a formality—I would do whatever it took to get my mother back, no matter what he said—but it would be helpful to proceed with his blessing and the resources of the CIA behind me.

"Permission granted," Graham said. "Naturally we'll prioritize retrieving your mother—but this, of course, has the added benefit of being able to get our hands on Mr. Larkin. Good work, Agent Walker."

I didn't bother telling him that I'd had absolutely nothing to do with Stephen's decision to show up on the younger Bartowskis' doorstep. "I'd like to request that Agent Rizzo be sent out on the next plane in order to assist with the rescue mission. Her assistance could be vital."

"Done." I could hear him punching a couple of keys. "Now, take Orion into custody—for his safety, of course—and we'll hear the rest of what he has to say."

This was exactly what I'd feared. I opened my mouth to object just as Orion touched something on his wrist computer, a small smile growing on his face. And then Graham said, "What the—"

"Still fond of Charleston Chews, Agent Graham?" Stephen tilted his wrist toward me. On the tiny screen, I could see a Charleston Chew candy in a tutu, dancing what looked suspiciously like the cha-cha.

"Is this your doing?" Graham sounded somewhere between incredulous and furious. "How did you get through our security system—into my computer?"

"Holy shit," Chuck breathed, quietly enough so that Graham wouldn't hear. "You put a dancing Charleston Chew on the screen of the director of the CIA's personal PC?"

His father raised an amused eyebrow in Chuck's direction. "Wouldn't you like to know, Art?"

"Stop calling me that."

"Why? It's your name, isn't it? Or are you too high and mighty to go by it now? Why, I remember when you were a lowly Agent in Charge, standing in the middle of a supermarket parking lot in L.A., nibbling on a nougat-filled candy bar to pass the time…"

"What is wrong with you? Get that thing off my screen!"

Stephen pressed something else, humming as he did so. "Is this better? Or maybe you'd prefer this…"

"What the hell are you doing? That's classified. You can't get access to those files!" I'd never heard Graham sound so rattled.

"Apparently, I can." Stephen hummed some more, looking happier and more relaxed than I'd seen him since we discovered him standing outside Chuck's front door.

"All right. All right! You've made your point. What is it that you want?"

"I'd like to tell you a little story, Art. Once upon a time, there was a man standing in a parking lot who got some upsetting news about his wife. Some very distressing news indeed. He knew he needed to find her at any cost, before it was too late. Luckily for him, he had some unique tools at his disposal…"

As we listened, Stephen recounted the story he'd told us—about discovering that Fulcrum and the Ring were just divisions of Volkoff Industries, and how he'd uploaded the Intersect into his brain in order to keep tabs on them … as well as on Mary. "A nice side effect of this," he concluded, "is that I'm also able to track Bryce Larkin and all of the heads of Volkoff's subsidiaries. I know exactly where all of them are and I can lead you straight to them—as soon as we bring Agent Walker's mother home. But if you try to take me in—I'll disappear just as quickly as I've resurfaced, and good luck finding me again for another ten years."

When he finished, Graham didn't say anything for a long, long time. I could picture him sitting at his spotless desk, hands steepled on the blotter, staring at the screen where a Charleston Chew had been dancing just a few minutes before. At last he said, "You always were too smart for your own good, Stephen."

"Maybe. But I know I'm too smart for _yours. _What do you say, Art? Do we have a deal, or do you want to have this conversation again sometime in the next decade?"

"We've got a deal." Graham sounded disgusted. "But you'd better hold up your end."

"Don't worry." A smile lifting his lips, Stephen looked right at me. "As I told Agent Walker before I made this call, I've got a plan. And as you might be aware—my plans rarely fail."

Graham listened as Chuck's father outlined what he had in mind. "You really think you can pull this off?" he said when Stephen finished.

"I do. Especially"—he glanced around at us, his eyes resting for an extra beat on his son—"with the right resources."

"All right." Graham cleared his throat. "Then do what you need to do."

In typical Graham fashion, he hung up without saying goodbye—leaving the seven of us staring at each other. Finally, Ellie dusted her hands together, as if shedding the stress of the past couple of hours.

"Well, that's that. This Zondra person is on her way, Director Graham's approved our plan, and now we just need to iron out the details. We're going to get your mother back, Sarah—even if we have to wait until tomorrow to do it. So now—how about that coffee and cookies?"

Somehow, Ellie managed to make 'coffee and cookies' sound like 'munitions and marching orders.' Even Casey looked cowed.

"Devon, you're with me," she told her boyfriend. "Casey, you too—we can use an extra set of hands. Chuck and Dad, why don't you spread out on the dining room table and use that space to work? Carina and Sarah, you two take the couch … it'll give you a comfortable place to strategize."

Somehow, we all found ourselves following her instructions. Soon, the familiar aroma of coffee wafted into the living room—but instead of savoring it, the way I normally did, it made my stomach churn.

"What is _wrong _with that coffee?" I said to Carina, turning my back to the kitchen in a desperate—and, as it turned out, futile—attempt to escape the acrid stench.

She gave me a strange look. "What are you talking about?"

"What do you mean? It's _disgusting. _It smells like it's been on that burner for a week. Like bad diner coffee from that stakeout in Prague, remember?"

Carina leaned back on the couch cushions, regarding me critically. "It smells perfectly normal to me."

"Well, then you're nuts. It makes me want to puke." I swallowed hard, trying to dismiss the odd, metallic taste in my mouth.

Carina looked at me. At Chuck. At me again. Up went her eyebrows.

"Holy shit, Walker," she said.

"What? Why are you staring at me that way?" I folded my arms across my chest, defensive—then, uncomfortable, unfolded them again.

"Do I have to spell it out for you? When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much …" She let her voice trail off suggestively.

My mouth fell open, and my heart started to pound. "Are you saying … No. No way. I couldn't—that is, I can't … we used—"

But we hadn't. Not every time. The morning after Chuck had taken the truth serum, we'd gotten carried away. I hadn't thought about it again … until now.

The weepiness. My mood swings. The weird way the onions had smelled when Chuck and I had walked into the house to announce our engagement, and the terrible stench of the coffee. It all started to come together … in a terrifying, world-falling-out-from-beneath-me kind of way.

"No," I said, leaping to my feet. The room spun, and, dizzy, I sank back down on the couch. "This can't be happening. It can't. I won't let it."

Carina patted my arm. "Sorry, but even the all-powerful Sarah Walker has her limitations. Maybe you and I should've had the 'talk' before you leapt into bed with Tall, Dark, and Curly over there …"

"Shut up. Don't say another word. I have to think." And I _was_ thinking—furiously trying to remember the date of my last period. The harder I tried to remember, the worse I felt.

What was wrong with me? How could I have done something so stupid? I pressed my fingers to my lips, trying not to cry—or throw up.

"How's that thinking going, Blondie?" Carina said, sounding sympathetic. "Have any brilliant ideas?"

I looked over at Chuck, whose dark head was bent over a laptop—right next to his father's. Despite the urgency of our situation, he was smiling as he pointed at something on the screen. He looked happy—as if something he hadn't dared hope for had come true.

We were planning a wedding. His father had come back. Tomorrow, with any luck at all, Bryce Larkin would be a memory and my mom would be safe and sound.

And here I was, with what might amount to a ticking time bomb inside me. What if I _was _pregnant? What would Chuck say? What would he do? Hell, what would _I _do?

I couldn't imagine that I'd be a very good mother. It was like Ellie had said—spies didn't staff PTA rummage sales and bake cookies with M&Ms in them. But as horrifying as motherhood in the abstract seemed, having a baby with Chuck was another matter. I could so easily envision an adorable little boy with his mop of curls and my blue eyes—his searing intelligence and my perspicacity. If I was carrying a little piece of Chuck inside me right now—someone we'd made together—even if it scared me to death, it would also feel like a miracle. A dream I'd never been brave enough to entertain.

But what if Chuck didn't feel the same way?

First things first, I told myself. This could be anything. Nerves. The stomach flu. Low blood sugar. I could freak out tomorrow, when my mother was safe.

As if he could sense my anxiety, Chuck lifted his head. His eyes found mine, and he gave me a reassuring smile.

"No brilliant ideas," I told Carina as Casey strode into the room, balancing a tray piled high with the promised cookies on one huge palm and looking entirely put-upon. "Except for this. Today, we plan a rescue. And tomorrow—if nothing changes—I buy a test."

* * *

A/N: Uh-oh … should Sarah be more worried about rescuing her mother, the sudden reappearance of Chuck's father, or the results of the little test in her future? Stay tuned to find out.

On a separate note, we noticed that we had fewer reviews last week than usual—are you folks still into this story? If not, please tell us—we won't be offended! And if so, please leave us a review to let us know.

As always, thanks for reading—and as we said above, please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.


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